In the beginning there was Man then there was woman, but what comes next?.

 This is a poem?, narrative and a novel.

 Follow Man and discover what it means to start out blank, to reset, rebuild and discover.

In the beginning there was Man then there was woman, but what comes next?.

 This is a poem?, narrative and a short story 

 Follow Man and discover what it means to start out blank, to reset, rebuild and discover.

A poem written out of desperate reason. 
Pleas, Heartaches and Lamentations of a broken person. 
Poems are made to express hidden desire of a broken sane. 
A Pleas of someone whos in unexplainable pain.

Heartaches that cant be rhyme and define 
to somebody's life and the 'what ifs' that cant be take 'cause lifes cruelty will in line. 
Poems that made out of indescribable feeling of sadness and cry of a voiceless man to pit of loneliness. 
A poem who expresses my inner thoughts and my true identity!


Ibat ibang kwento ng tula
Sari-saring pangyayaring di tugma. 
Mga binitawang salita
Iisang damdaming di akma na sinulat ng may akda.
Sa panahong pusoy mandirigma.
Ipinaglabang damdaming na sa duloy pagsukong di maamin. 

Tulang di mag kapareho ang haba ng paksa, Naway sanay bigyang halaga ang damdaming dekadang ng nagluluksa.

-Poetry.

Zelda Mulette thinks she is just an ordinary 13 year old girl. But how you will define "ordinary" will be different for everyone. Extraordinarily to some readers, she is born and bred into the stellar world of Hollywood, to a mother and stepfather who are talented, award-winning actors in the industry. Narrated by her bold, tell-all but loving attitude, join Zelda as she navigates her own rollercoaster of life, with which she claims is "Not like in the movies". This celebrity-inspired narrative will make you laugh, cry and think no matter who we are in this world, nobody has it easy.

What concern of yours is the abyss of a woman, Gallus Baeticus?  
This tongue of yours is fit to lick the middle of men.  Why was your dick cut off with a Samian sherd,  if a cunt was so pleasing to you, Baeticus?  
Your head should be emasculated: for although you're a Gallus in your crotch,  nevertheless you cheat the sacred rites of Cybele: you're a man with your mouth.  
 
The joke in this poem that Baeticus is still a man because he interacts with female bodies, even though the act of cunnilingus itself is considered degrading for a man to perform. The poet offers another edit for Baeticus' body: that he remove the offending part—his head—because he is not using it correctly, according to his gendered role as a Gallus. The term Gallus brings with it a sense of intentionality: Baeticus has chosen to be emasculated, or perhaps has even emasculated himself. Death is the only solution for the man who has chosen to voluntarily remove his phallic power, for the man who still tries to use his non-masculine body for penetrating. Removal of phallic (generative) power from a body negates self-control and the personhood of the body. The type of sexual violence representative of altering the epigrammatic text that we shall see in chapter 2 will not usually apply to the text represented by the female body (although in certain cases, specifically prior to publication, the text is figured as a vulnerable body, e.g., a woman or puer, who are figured as having less control over their bodies than men).  
Since Martial's poetry has taken much from Ovid's poetic corpus,  we consider here an example of sexual violence as it represents the author and his work. The body as a gendered, editable text (especially representing the author) in tension with genre is on display in Ovid's 
Metamorphoses in the story of Procne and Philomela (Ov. Met. 6.412–674), which has, among other things, been interpreted as the poet responding to censure and criticism of his text.  This story puts on display the fundamental vulnerability of the female body. Philomela's safety should by all social conventions be assured while she visits her sister's family. She is, however, put into peril, not during her journey, but when she arrives by her sister's husband, a man who is 
  
effectively a family member. The poet or the text may be represented as a similar body-type with this specific vulnerability. This showcases for the reader the potential social danger toward the text and the poet's reputation. The reader may choose to safeguard the text for the poet or to abuse the text. There is also a stated anxiety within the text of punishment against the poet by a ruler or other authority. The poet attempts to mitigate this by describing his life and poetry in completely opposite terms. When a poet experiences punishment as a result of a social mistake that comes from his text, he is being punished physically and silenced metaphorically, which is represented by the text in a strictly physical way: the poet Ovid made a mistake in his text (carmen et error, Ov. Trist. 2.1.207), suffers the consequence of being exiled, and has written himself into his text in the figure of Philomela, who is physically punished (the removal of her tongue) for threatening to make a public accusation against Tereus for raping her.  
Talibus ira feri postquam commota tyranni   
nec minor hac metus est, causa stimulatus utraque,  quo fuit accinctus, vagina liberat ensem   arreptamque coma fixis post terga lacertis   vincla pati cogit; iugulum Philomela parabat  spemque suae mortis viso conceperat ense:   550 
ille indignantem et nomen patris usque vocantem   luctantemque loqui conprensam forcipe linguam   abstulit ense fero. radix micat ultima linguae,   ipsa iacet terraeque tremens inmurmurat atrae,   utque salire solet mutilatae cauda colubrae,   555 
palpitat et moriens dominae vestigia quaerit.    hoc quoque post facinus (vix ausim credere) fertur   560 
saepe sua lacerum repetisse libidine corpus. (Ov. Met. 6.549–562)  
 
Then, by these words the rage of the brutal tyrant was incited  and no less than this, his fear, goaded on by both reasons,  he draws from its sheath the sword with which he was equipped  and he grabs her by her hair and forces her, arms behind her back,  to endure chains; Philomela was offering her throat  and conceived a hope for her own death when she saw the sword:  
The tongue, indignant and continuously calling the name of her father  and struggling to speak, grasped by pincers that man removed with his brutal blade.  
The remaining part of the root of the tongue quivers,  trembling it lies on the dark earth and murmurs,  just like the tail of a maimed serpent is accustomed to spasm,  the dying part pulses and seeks the footsteps of its mistress.  After this deed it is also said—I scarcely dare to believe it—that  he returned often to the mangled body with his own desire.  
 
This description of added violence immediately follows Philomela's declaration to make a public accusation of **** against Tereus. Tereus responds with rage and fear to Philomela's threat with more physical violence against her body: he removes her tongue so that she will not be able to speak against him. Her disembodied tongue is endowed with human characteristics as it moves, makes sounds, and seeks to be reunited with Phlomela (6.558–560); Philomela, on the other hand, is reduced to a "mangled body" (lacerum… corpus, 6.562) having lost the power of speech. This is a metaphorical emasculation because the tongue represents speech, which is a masculine power particularly in Rome.  The tongue is one of the most powerful organs a person can possess, but women misuse it. We see a similar event played out in Martial's epigrams with the power of speech being equated to the power of the mentula particularly with its associations with obscenity and obscene speech. Ovid figures the tongue as the organ of poetry, but Martial figures the penis as the organ of poetry. If the text is expurgated or bowdlerized, the poet is emasculated. When Tereus removes Philomela's tongue, he is rewriting (bowdlerizing) her body, making it into something that he prefers. Tereus tries to rewrite the narrative of his physical violence against Philomela by rewriting her body (i.e., cutting out her tongue), but she uses other means (weaving, a women's craft) in order to tell her story and the truth of the events. Both poets 
  
reject—just as Philomela does—this fashioning by another of one's own self and one's own narrative. Ovid writes a character that tells her narrative any way that she is able: first, with her words, and when that ability is taken from, with her weaving. Martial fashions his own textual world  and populates it with people needing correction, like his text (1.3).  The poet acts as an educator, a praeceptor omnium. The poet is the ultimate authority of textual alteration,  and he may alter other bodies and texts, but may not be altered by others.  
The story of Procne and Philomela demonstrates the power of the voice represented by the tongue as well as the power of the material object on which a narrative is represented. 
Philomela's ****, exile, and mutilation is analogous to Ovid's exile. Tereus attempts to remove every piece of power that she has, but nevertheless she persisted telling her story by any means available to her (weaving). So too Ovid uses his poetry in an attempt to mitigate his punishment. 
We shall see that Martial makes reference to Ovid's exile and uses key themes of mutilation in Book 3 of his poetry to make a joke on censorship, Romaness, and obscenity (chapter 3).  
In the surviving examples of inscribed bullets from the glandes Perusinae, text-objectbody intersect among many examples of obscenely inscribed bullets.  Two examples of these bullets will suffice.  
FVLVIAE / <L>ANDICAM / PET<O> / (image of a thunderbolt) (=CIL XI 6721.5) 
I seek the clitoris of Fulvia.  
 
PET<O> / OCTAVIA / CVLVM (=CIL XI 6721.7)  
  
I seek the asshole of Octavian.  
 
The glandes are relevant to this discussion because they are texts that are phallically aggressive (in a metaphorical sense) and physically threatening in a literal sense. Both of these texts present themselves as a penetrator with the first-person verb (pet<o>) and the obscene description of the body part being sexually engaged (landicam, "clitoris" and culum, "asshole"). These two bullets come from opposing sides of the siege; one figuratively attacks Fulvia, the wife of Mark Antony, and the other insults Octavian, represented as effeminate with a feminine form of his name.  The physicality of these object-texts is felt more than most texts that are contained in a roll or codex.  
Bodily interaction with the text as an object is also felt in Catullus, for example: si qui forte mearum ineptiarum / lectores eritis manusque vestras / non horrebitis admovere nobis, … ("if by chance you who will be readers of my trifles and will not shudder to put your hands on us, …" Catull. 14b).  This poem is considered fragmentary, but the nobis at the end indicates a conflating of text with author. When the lectores hold the book, they hold the author himself and interact with him. The poet-text-reader interaction becomes a sensual experience. The poet cautions against conflating himself with the text two poems later and threatens another type of bodily interaction in poem 16, demonstrating that while the poems are trifles, the poet is not one to be trifled with.  
 
 Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,   
  
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,   qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,   quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.  nam castum esse decet pium poetam 5 ipsum, versiculos nihil necessest;   qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,   si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici   et quod pruriat incitare possunt,   non dico pueris, sed his pilosis,  10 qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos.  vos, quod milia multa basiorum   legistis, male me marem putatis?   
 pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.  (Catull. 16) 
 
I will buttfuck and facefuck you,  Aurelius the bottom and Furius the twink,  you who think me excessively immodest from my little verses,  which are small and soft.  
For it's fitting for a pious poet to be chaste himself,  but it's not at all necessary for his little verses;  which precisely have wit and charm,  if they are soft and immodest and  if they are able to excite that which itches,  
I'm not talking about boys,  but about those hairy men,  who can't move their inflexible loins.  
You think that I'm a bad man because  you read about my many thousands of kisses?  
I'll buttfuck and facefuck you.  
 
The mistake of Aurelius and Furius is to equate the poet with his text too much: a phenomenon that later poets (including Martial) will generally encourage—though not in a monolithic way— because the description of later epigram changes.  In this poem, the poet becomes aggressively 
  
masculine whereas he allows for his text to be soft and pleasant. This description of the text conforms to the elegiac idea that the text stands in for the beloved (puella, puer), who ought to be tender, an idea that does not find a home in the later epigrammatists, namely Martial, the Carmina Priapea, and Ausonius. The text as a body becomes solidly masculinized after Catullus, with the emergence of the CP and Martial's epigrams. Martial's epigrams will be pleasing as well, but in the way that a husband's mentula ("dick") pleases his wife (1.35): a soft dick will not cut it. Catullus, conversely, describes his poems as "soft" (mollis) and contrasts this with his own life, which he calls modest and pious (nam castum esse decet pium poetam / ipsum, 16.5–6). In epigrammatic poetry, the text as a body loses its softness, and it becomes a stand-in for the poet or subject of the text: a phallically penetrative man. Martial himself does not use the language of mollitia ("softness") to describe his text.  The text is still playful (lasciva, Mart. 1.4.8).  The text representing a phallic man can be gleaned from Catullus' poetry when it represents the male body or the text as a defender of the poet or as a surrogate of the poet threatening the suitors of his beloved. In poem 37, the relationship between pictorial representation of the body and the text as a body coalesce.  
Salax taberna vosque contubernales,  a pilleatis nona fratribus pila,  solis putatis esse mentulas vobis,   solis licere, quidquid est puellarum,  
 confutuere et putare ceteros hircos?       5 
an, continenter quod sedetis insulsi  centum an ducenti, non putatis ausurum   me una ducentos irrumare sessores?  atqui putate: namque totius vobis   
 frontem tabernae sopionibus scribam.      10 
  
puella nam mi, quae meo sinu fugit,  amata tantum quantum amabitur nulla,   pro qua mihi sunt magna bella pugnata,   consedit istic. hanc boni beatique     
omnes amatis, et quidem, quod indignum est, omnes pusilli et semitarii moechi;   tu praeter omnes une de capillatis,   cuniculosae Celtiberiae fili,  
Egnati, opaca quem bonum facit barba      15 
et dens Hibera defricatus urina.        20 (Catull. 37) 
 
Lusty tavern and you frequenters,  
nine doors down from the pillars of the brothers with hats,  you think that dicks are yours alone  and that only you are allowed to fuck whichever of the girls  and to think the rest of us are goats?  
Or because you sit together awkwardly in a group of one or two hundred,  you don't think that I would dare  to facefuck two hundred of you sitters one-at-a-time?  
But think it if you want:  
for I will completely cover the front of the tavern with dicks.  For, my girl, who fled my lap,  
one loved as much as no girl will ever be loved,  because of her I fought great battles,  she lays up in that shithole.  All you good and fortunate men  love her, and indeed, what's really harsh,  all the petty and wandering side-pieces  love her;  you beyond all one among the long-haired men,  
son of rabbit-infested Celtiberia,  Egnatius, whom a thick beard  and a tooth brushed with Spanish piss makes into a good man.  
 
Catullus has lost his girl (puella… mi, 37.11) to the brothel and other men pay to enjoy her company (perhaps an analogy for his text). Much like poem 16, the poet denounces his rivals/critics as men who would submit to his sexual aggression (non putatis ausurum / me una 
  
ducentos irrumare sessores? 37.7–8). The poet's boast of being able to penetrate orally 200 people sequentially (una, 37.8) makes his phallic aggression hyperbolic. Perhaps he means for his drawings of dicks or writings about dicks to assist him in the next lines (namque totius vobis / frontem tabernae sopionibus scribam, 37.9–10). With the phrase "scribble dicks all over the tavern," by using a term that also appears in graffiti, the poet could be referring to insulting poetry that calls out his rivals by name using graphic illustrations, words, or perhaps a

This is a novel that can touch you're sense

NARRATIVE of WARD COURIER, Continued
June, 2009
SOUTH WALES, NY

Like a waif seeking shelter, Lys had fallen asleep with her head on my chest. I don't remember a tenderer moment. I was happy, looking forward to the progression of this affair, which it felt like it was destined to be. I was surprised at the way it had gone, after so many stops and starts and contradictions. I stayed awake another half hour, not moving so as to let her fall into a solid sleep.
She was gone when I woke. I don't know how or when she slipped out, but I think it was shortly before I came to. When I got to my first summer school class, I got a surprise.
The kids were grinning and making faces like they knew something was up. They usually don't laugh like that unless it involves something below the belt line. My fly wasn't down, so my mind went to other possibilities. It wasn't until I asked two counselors - members of the tennis team I coached - what was up that I got the answer.
Some of the counselors staying in the cottage on the hill were walking to breakfast about the time Lys pulled out in her top-down Beamer, probably in her mirror-lens Serengetis. They had seen her make the long, slow wind down my driveway to the road. At least ten campers had gotten a good look at her, and I know how she looked. The story of "Mr. Courier's Lucky Night" had made the rounds.
'Ah well,' I thought to myself. I don't like this sort of advertising around campus. I usually try to stay low-key. But you have to live your life.
****

NARRATIVE of WARD COURIER
July, 2009
The TOWN of ORCHARD PARK, NY

It was later in the summer, and Lys was off on another of her walkabouts. I had no clue when I would hear from her again except that it would be "a couple weeks." I'd had plenty of time to process things since our one dramatic conversation, and I needed it.
All Lys had told me about herself, her erratic button-pushing, her mood-swings from chilly to frenzied, her stymying behavior... The whole picture came together.
She was a stunningly attractive young woman driven to edgy act-outs. She had X-Games genes. She had been put off men by her overprotective - or possessive - father. She was driven to travel and pull up roots and push off entanglements everywhere she went. She left a trail of broken expectations wherever she touched down. Her only connection with Western New York was to her mother who wasn't going to live here long. She was like an autumn leaf, flying off a tree and drifting according to destiny. It was actually poetic. Based on what I knew of her and that one close conversation, I worked at and nearly completed a poem which I was trying to turn into a villanelle. It was just taking me some time to be sure it was proper even after it was outwardly finished. I meditated about it a lot.
I should tell you that I find the villanelle a damn hard thing to write. A villanelle is a very tightly structured poem of nineteen lines. It's got five three-line stanzas called tercets. It's got a four-line stanza at the end called a quatrain. That's the easy part, because there are prescribed repetitions of the same two lines.
Sylvia Plath ("Mad Girl's Love Song") and Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle...") wrote two wonderful twentieth-century villanelles. James Joyce put a good one into the work of his younger alter-ego, Stephen Dedalus, in "Portrait of the Artist..." I didn't think mine about Lys was anywhere near as good as theirs, though I do believe it held up as a poem and that it had some good lines and made some sense.
Because of the eight repetitions of the same two lines (they call that a dual refrain), the poem only has thirteen different lines in it. That might make it sound one line easier than a sonnet, which has fourteen. But then each of those repeating lines in the villanelle has to be even heavier.
There's no room for dead weight in a villanelle. There isn't in a sonnet, either, which feels like a tortuous form to some people. Sonnets are often rhymed, but a traditional sonnet has no fixed prescriptions but line number, and often line length. Pentameter - fundamentally, ten syllables per line - is customary in English, at least for poets who want to stay traditional. But the sonnet doesn't have to feature the repeating lines.
That, to me, is really the trick about the villanelle: those identically repeating lines. They not only have to appeal to the ear and the inner eye but they have to make condensed sense and be stitched so perfectly each time where they fall.
The villanelle is the Devil. I confess that I can't write a good one. I haven't yet, anyway.
I also thought about the relationship with Lys. I felt a sudden sense that I had let her down. If anyone ought to be wise and understanding, it should be someone who poses as wise and understanding. I realized that Lys' whole trip with me could have been an adult repetition of some of the discipline problems I had when I was a young teacher.
Not every act-out is a challenge that has to be met and conquered, though rookie teachers often see it that way. Sometimes act-outs are calls for attention, which is another way of calling for help. In an adult, amorous sense, this could have been the same thing with Lys. Compassion came over me, and admiration.
This girl may not have been sexually frozen, but she was amorously unusual. I got it. She didn't need a conquering hero, a canny 007, or a stern-lipped tough guy. She needed a man to be a bit of a big brother. Once I got that, my nurturing sense was touched.
It was during the period that I was working on that poem, that demon villanelle, and not knowing when I would see Lys again that I drove into a convenient in a nearby village to get some gas. I spotted Lys with a man and a woman about her age on their mountain bikes. They were getting air for the tires of one of the bikes and sipping on water bottles. There was no dirt on any of them, so I presume they were doing the roads.
"I just got in," Lys said, standing beside her Pete Fisher. "I was going to call you."
"No worries," I said, or something affable like that. It did take me by surprise to find her back and settled in. I would have counted on a little shout-out.
Lys looked OK. She actually was in a lot better emotional shape than I would have expected. She didn't introduce me to her friends, and I could tell by their lack of eye contact that they weren't interested in introductions. I did notice them. One was an athletic-looking, short-haired, middle-sized white guy. He looked like a clean-cut succeeder, good at anything he applied himself to. Same for the woman, who was sturdily built, short-haired, and attractive. I had the haunting sense that I had seen them both before, possibly with Lys in one of the pubs.
We made an arrangement to call each other and that was the end of it for awhile. I kept writing and playing tennis and enjoying the second half of my summer and otherwise living my life. People all grieve their own way, in their own time. I wouldn't want somebody asking me questions or passing judgements about what I had to do to work out the karma.




Author:
Author, teacher, storyteller, and supernatural historian Mason Winfield studied English and Classics at Denison University, earned a master’s degree in British literature at Boston College, and studied poetry and fiction at SUNY Buffalo with professor emeritus and MacArthur grant recipient Irving Feldman. He has written or edited fourteen books, including the regional sensation “Shadows of the Western Door” (1997) and “Iroquois Supernatural,” co-authored with Michael Bastine, on the traditions of the Six Longhouse Nations (Inner Traditions International/Bear & Company, 2011). Several of his surveys of upstate folklore and paranormal tradition may be found at the website of Western New York Wares: www.buffalobooks.com. He may be reached at www.masonwinfield.com.

An anatomically perfect human jaw fashioned of diamond-hard quartz crystal is uncovered at an Ohio burial mound and sold on the underground antiquities market. Shortly after, three pothunters are found dead.

A mysterious new drug suspected of South American origin surfaces in Buffalo, NY. Its unprecedented psycho-tropic effects include the momentary activation of ESP. 

Blind, speechless, emaciated street people start appearing in many parts of the world. An urban legend-cycle forms around them, and the name of a murderous old cult, “the Whistlers” attaches to them.

An archaeological team at a Mayan site reports finding a bizarre artifact and vanishes. 

An upstate schoolteacher’s book of New York legends and folklore foreshadows these developments and more. 

   These are the threads – plus his affair with a maddening woman – that draw narrator Ward Courier into the international adventure of occultism, terror, Native American tradition and onrushing prophecy that is Mason Winfield’s anticipated new novel THE WHISTLERS. By the time the picture of THE WHISTLERS becomes clear, we are ready to believe in a sinister conspiracy that could predate Atlantis and even hail from another world.

Note: This chapter is one of the most personal poem in this book as it is based from my life. It contains serious/mature themes such as depression and suicide. Read at your own risk ❗

Some passages can be executed in a narrative way.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They say that life begins with youth,

You'll start to realize what the "truth" is

For me, it didn't work that way

The sun sets and left me in the dark

Lightning flash, a thunderclap

You left me there in the middle of a storm

I realized that I was the storm

And I am trapped in my own delusion

Lightning symbolized my anger

The thunder is the old version of me,

A once loud sound that fades away

And the rain was my own tears

The bitter tears of despair


I am the archer and the prey

It's a cry for help

But no one didn't listen

Or maybe they aren't willing to help

Then there became the desire to die

Death is an illusion of freedom


They said youth 

But it never worked for me that way.

Empty promises,

Invalid feelings,

Unexpected changes,

Gotta keep my head above the water


It all happened

Because my world was full of haze

I felt incomplete

Then I knew you're the missing puzzle piece

I have to find where you are

And finally, it was the wake-up call I never knew I needed

A Day Of Joy - The Cycle of Life Trilogy Volume One

This book consists of 12 poems and 3 acts. New poems will be released every Wednesday and Friday.

A Day of Joy talks about its main themes of joy, hope and desire. Desire for a better future, a better life, and for the satisfaction of one's own desires. It also tackles topics about depression and happiness, loss and victories, hope and despair. This collection of poetry does not focus on one person. If these words speak out to your heart, embrace it and I hope it gives you a better and positive side of life.

The Heian period has been referred to as the golden era of art and literature in Japan.[3] During this era, literature became centered on a cultural elite of nobility and monks.[4] The imperial court particularly patronized the poets, most of whom were courtiers or ladies-in-waiting. Reflecting the aristocratic atmosphere, the poetry was elegant and sophisticated and expressed emotions in a rhetorical style. Editing the resulting anthologies of poetry soon became a national pastime. The iroha poem, now one of two standard orderings for the Japanese syllabary, was also developed during the early Heian period.

Genji Monogatari (The Tale of Genji), written in the early 11th century by a woman named Murasaki Shikibu, is considered the pre-eminent novel of Heian fiction.[citation needed][5] Other important writings of this period include the Kokin Wakashū (905), a waka-poetry anthology, and Makura no Sōshi (The Pillow Book) (990s). The Pillow Book was written by Sei Shōnagon, Murasaki Shikibu's contemporary and rival, as an essay about the life, loves, and pastimes of nobles in the Emperor's court.[6]Another notable piece of fictional Japanese literature was Konjaku Monogatarishū, a collection of over a thousand stories in 31 volumes. The volumes cover various tales from India, China and Japan.

The 10th-century Japanese narrative, Taketori Monogatari (The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter), can be considered an early example of proto-science fiction. The protagonist of the story, Kaguya-hime, is a princess from the Moon who is sent to Earth for safety during a celestial war, and is found and raised by a bamboo cutter. She is later taken back to her extraterrestrial family in an illustrated depiction of a disc-shaped flying object similar to a flying saucer.[

this is made for the purpose of getting the authors badge  at any rate I'll just compile world literature

She left the place and went in search of Xiao Qiang. This time that Xiao Qiang left, he had not told her about where he went. Not that he did tell her anything for the past months, but he always came back late.

This time she waited for him by playing guzheng. She waited for so long that she didn't even remember how many songs she played. She continuously waited, but as the time went by, it didn't seem like he was coming back home.

Still, she waited. She paced around the room thinking maybe something bad may have befallen him, but she knew that he was a tough man, he couldn't have possibly gotten hurt. 

As the sun rose, she gave up on waiting and left in search of him. She didn't know where to begin as he she didn't go out with him a lot. However, the first place she went to search was where she first found him. 

Going back to the snow mountain, she found that the cave had disappeared. The only remaining was the one she had went in to release her spiritual energy. She did not believe that the cave would have disappeared without leaving a trace.

She searched around the perimeters thinking that maybe she was at the wrong spot, but no matter how many times she circled around the mountain, she found herself at the same spot.

Thinking that maybe the cave had just been hidden by him, she used her golden eyes to see the unseen. She circled around the mountain for a while to scout the mountain. When she went back to where she started, she counted that there were 10 caves in all that she had not seen. 

This was mysterious as when she last came here, there was only two caves. The one where she found him and the one she rested in. She thought that perhaps this was his magic because she knew how smart he was was. She didn't want to waste time by going to look at every cave to see which one was the real one, but there was a force blocking her from using her peripheral vision.

It was not possible for her to use magic to see which one was real, so she spent an hour or so to look at every cave. After going inside them all, she found that none of them were the one she was looking for. She couldn't believe that she used her time to open up the caves, but none of them were the one she was looking for.

Still, this strange occurrence caused her to be determined to find the cave she believed he was in, so she went in all 10 of them again and this time, she found clues in everyone of them. There was a pattern that she needed to solve. The first one solving a poem. She had to choose the correct dress and the poem was the hint. There was 3 dresses that appeared in front of her, a red wedding dress, a royal gold dress, and a black tight dress. The poem stated that the correct answer had something related to a small celebration full of meaning. 

If she was anyone else, she would have chosen the red wedding dress, but she remembered clearly that these dresses belonged to her. She knew the history behind each of them and chose the black tight dress. She wore this dress on his birthday. It was the first time they met each other and because of her family abandoning her, she wore this dress to define her grief.

The dress showed that she knew how to fight, but it showed how lonely she was. That was the night that they both celebrated meeting each other. It was small, but that day they met, was meaningful. If she never met him, she would probably be off the cliff and if he never met her, he would be hated and killed. This was the history to the dress and why she chose it.

Another door opened an entrance to the next cave. Each cave had a poem as a hint and three options for her to choose. Everyone of them was meaningful to her as it was full of nostalgia, but the last one, made her cry.

The seas at calm, the disappearance of the moon, the gleam of the sun - dead

This poem was clearly talking about how him and her had both died on the opposites of the world. It wasn't a lie, she was chased off of a cliff, while he was killed unknowingly. They both did not know how each of them died, but they knew that they had separated when they felt the traces of their soul dying.

She was crying hard on the floor not knowing what to do. She felt that she might fail on this one as it looked like she had to name how he or she died. She was scared to say out loud, but in the end, she gave up and told how she died. It was the tenth cave and just like the others, she expected for the door to open or fire to start springing from the incorrect answer, but another poem popped up instead.

Reunited the butterfly lovers, so shall we...

Seeing this poem made her cry again and when she was drowning in emotions, a rock door moved.

She didn't know that while she was searching for him and busy doing all of her business, Xiao Qiang was busy planning their date for their anniversary. She cried at how he was able to remember their anniversary of the first day they met. He always kept his promises and he continued to do so. She remembered that when they first romanticized, he made a promise to her saying that every year, he would remember to celebrate the day they met.

She cried in front of the door in happiness and sadness. He used the butterfly lover story to describe their story. Just like the butterfly lovers, they went through lots of hard times to be together. He died and so did she, but just like the butterflies, they both reunited after death. 

He made her want to fall in love all over again. Ending her tears, she entered the door to find the cave full of her favorite flower. She really loved plum blossoms for not only their beauty, but also their uses. The table full of food she used to cook for him. She wondered how he cooked all of these food.

"I missed our date, but is it still available?"

Zhao Ling always wanted nothing more than to live a peaceful life independently. However, on a fateful day, she somehow gets transmigrated to the the past. Not any normal ancient civilization though. One that uses spiritual powers. Zhao Ling wants to do everything she can to just go back to her time, but yet, she can't.

Somehow, she came to regain memories and started to pursue through all kinds of troubles to finally someday have everything go back to normal. Wei Qiang, her husband has lost his memories, but he stays stuck to her no matter what. Many kinds of troubles come and Xia Lin solves them with triumph.

--------------------------------------------------
Preview on the story...

On a fine day, Xia Lin's ex-boyfriend comes to greet her. Xia Lin had been with Xiao Qiang for the day showing him the modern world. 

"Hey! Ling Ling nice to see you again. Want to-ahh my eyes!"

Xiao Qiang pulled her into a deep kiss in front of her ex with a triumphant smirk that seems to say, "Hmph! I win."
--------------------------------------------------
At a party, in the restroom, Xiao Qian pulled her into a kiss.

"Xiao Qian, we are at a party."

He pulls out his sad and cute puppy eyes, "But all the men were staring at you."

"Sigh... What am I going to do with you. Your too unfair Xiao Qian."
--------------------------------------------------
After Xia Lin came back from work, she found that Little Tan was missing.

"Honey, where is Little Tan?"

"I sent him to spend time with Father Liu."

"Wh-mph!"

Xiao Qian pushed her down to the bed and started to kiss her. "I need time with you too."

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