هذا القسم يحتوي علي العديد من القصص والروايات باللغة الإنجليزية

(Stories and novels) القصص والروايات
الرواية هي سرد نثري طويل يصف شخصيات خيالية أو واقعية وأحداثاً على شكل قصة متسلسلة، كما أنها أكبر الأجناس القصصية من حيث الحجم وتعدد الشخصيات وتنوع الأحداث، وقد ظهرت في أوروبا بوصفها جنساً أدبياً مؤثراً في القرن الثامن عشر، والرواية حكاية تعتمد السرد بما فيه من وصف وحوار وصراع بين الشخصيات وما ينطوي عليه ذلك من تأزم وجدل وتغذيه الأحداث
A novel is a relatively long work of narrative fiction, normally written in prose form, and which is typically published as a book. The present English word for a long work of prose fiction derives from the Italian novella for "new", "news", or "short story of something new", itself from the Latin novella, a singular noun use of the neuter plural of novellus, diminutive of novus, meaning "new". Walter Scott made a distinction between the novel, in which (as he saw it) "events are accommodated to the ordinary train of human events and the modern state of society" and the romance, which he defined as "a fictitious narrative in prose or verse; the interest of which turns upon marvellous and uncommon incidents". However, many such romances, including the historical romances of Scott, Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights and Herman Melville's Moby-Dick, are also frequently called novels, and Scott describes romance as a "kindred term". This sort of romance is in turn different from the genre fiction love romance or romance novel
A short story is a piece of prose fiction that typically can be read in one sitting and focuses on a self-contained incident or series of linked incidents, with the intent of evoking a "single effect" or mood.

A dictionary definition is "an invented prose narrative shorter than a novel usually dealing with a few characters and aiming at unity of effect and often concentrating on the creation of mood rather than plot."

The short story is a crafted form in its own right. Short stories make use of plot, resonance, and other dynamic components as in a novel, but typically to a lesser degree. While the short story is largely distinct from the novel or novella (a shorter novel), authors generally draw from a common pool of literary techniques.

Misery    

But sometimes the sounds — like the pain — faded, and then there was only the haze. He
remembered darkness solid darkness had come before the haze. Did that mean he was making
progress? Let there be light (even of the hazy variety), and the light was good, and so on and so
on? Had those sounds existed in the darkness? He didn't know the answers to any of these
questions. Did it make sense to ask them? He didn't know the answer to that one, either
 The pain was somewhere below the sounds. The pain was east of the sun and south of his ears.
That was all he did know.
 For some length of time that seemed very long (and so was, since the pain and the stormy haze
were the only two things which existed) those sounds were the only outer reality. He had no idea
who he was or where he was and cared to know neither. He wished he was dead, but through the
pain-soaked haze that filled his mind like a summer storm-cloud, he did not know he wished it.
 As time passed, he became aware that there were periods of non-pain, and that these had a
cyclic quality. And for the first time since emerging from the total blackness which had prologued
the haze, he had a thought which existed apart from whatever his current situation was. This
thought was of a broken-off piling which had jutted from the sand at Revere Beach. His mother
and father had taken him to Revere Beach often when he was a kid, and he had always insisted
that they spread their blanket where he could keep an eye on that piling, which looked to him like
the single jutting fang of a buried monster. He liked to sit and watch the water come up until it
covered the piling. Then, hours later, after the sandwiches and potato salad had been eaten, after
the last few drops of Kool-Aid had been coaxed from his father's big Thermos, just before his
mother said it was time to pack up and start home, the top of the rotted piling would begin to show
again — just a peek and flash between the incoming waves at first, then more and more. By the
time their trash was stashed in the big drum with KEEP YOUR BEACH CLEAN stencilled on the
side, Paulie's beach-toys picked up
 (that's my name Paulie I'm Paulie and tonight ma'll put Johnson's Baby Oil on my sunburn he
thought inside the thunderhead where he now lived)
 and the blanket folded again, the piling had almost wholly reappeared, its blackish, slimesmoothed sides surrounded by sudsy scuds of foam. It was the tide, his father had tried to explain,
but he had always known it was the piling. The tide came and went; the piling stayed. It was just
that sometimes you couldn't see it. Without the piling, there was no tide
 

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