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.

The Memory Keeper's Daughter    

THE SNOW STARTED TO FALL SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE HER labor began. A
few flakes first, in the dull gray late-afternoon sky, and then wind-driven swirls and
eddies around the edges of their wide front porch. He stood by her side at the window,
watching sharp gusts of snow billow, then swirl and drift to the ground. All around the
neighborhood, lights came on, and the naked branches of the trees turned white.
After dinner he built a fire, venturing out into the weather for wood he had piled against
the garage the previous autumn. The air was bright and cold against his face, and the
snow in the driveway was already halfway to his knees. He gathered logs, shaking off
their soft white caps and carrying them inside. The kindling in the iron grate caught fire
immediately, and he sat for a time on the hearth, cross-legged, adding logs and watching
the flames leap, blue-edged and hypnotic. Outside, snow continued to fall quietly through
the darkness, as bright and thick as static in the cones of light cast by the streetlights. By
the time he rose and looked out the window, their car had become a soft white hill on the
edge of the street. Already his footprints in the driveway had filled and disappeared.
He brushed ashes from his hands and sat on the sofa beside his wife, her feet propped on
pillows, her swollen ankles crossed, a copy of Dr. Spock balanced on her belly.
Absorbed, she licked her index finger absently each time she turned a page. Her hands
were slender, her fingers short and sturdy, and she bit her bottom lip lightly, intently, as
she read. Watching her, he felt a surge of love and wonder: that she was his wife, that
their baby, due in just three weeks, would soon be born. Their first child, this would be.
They had been married just a year.
She looked up, smiling, when he tucked the blanket around her legs.
"You know, I've been wondering what it's like," she said. "Before we're born, I mean. It's
too bad we can't remember." She opened her robe and pulled up the sweater she wore
underneath, revealing a belly as round and hard as a melon. She ran her hand across its
smooth surface, firelight playing across her skin, casting reddish gold onto her hair. "Do
you suppose it's like being inside a great lantern? The book says light-permeates my skin,
that the baby can already see."
 

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