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.

Inkspell    

He has been trying to sing
Love into existence again
And he has failed.
– Margaret Atwood, "Orpheus 2", Eating Fire
Twilight was gathering, and Orpheus still wasn't here.
Farid's heart beat faster, as it always did when day left him alone with the darkness. Curse that
Cheeseface! Where could he be? The birds were falling silent in the trees, as if the approach of
night had stifled their voices, and the nearby mountains were turning black. You might have
thought the setting sun had singed them. Soon the whole world would be black as pitch, even the
grass beneath Farid's bare feet, and the ghosts would begin to whisper. Farid knew only one
place where he felt safe from them: right behind Dustfinger, so close that he could feel his
warmth. Dustfinger wasn't afraid of the night. He liked it.
"Hearing them again, are you?" he asked, as Farid pressed close to him. "How many times do I
have to tell you? There aren't any ghosts in this world. One of its few advantages." Dustfinger
stood there leaning against an oak tree, looking down the lonely road. In the distance, a
streetlamp cast its light on the cracked asphalt where a few houses huddled by the roadside.
There were scarcely a dozen of them, standing close together as if they feared the night as much
as Farid.
The house where Cheeseface lived was the first on the road. There was a light on behind one of
its windows. Dustfinger had been staring at it for more than an hour. Farid had often tried
standing motionless like that, but his limbs simply would not keep still.
"I'm going to find out where he is!"
"No, you're not!" Dustfinger's face was as expressionless as ever, but his voice gave him away.
Farid heard the impatience in it ... and the hope that refused to die, although it had been
disappointed so often before. "Are you sure he said Friday?" "Yes, and this is Friday, right?"
Dustfinger just nodded, then pushed his shoulder-length hair back from his face. Farid had tried
growing his own hair long, but it was so curly, tangled, and unruly that in the end he cut it short
again with his knife.

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