❞ رواية The Dark Is Rising ❝ ⏤ Susan Cooper

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 Dark Is Rising    

 Midwinter's Eveb
 'Too many!' James shouted, and slammed the door behind him.'What?' said Will.'Too many kids in this
family, that's what. Just too many.'James stood fuming on the landing like a small angry locomotive, then
stumped across to the window-seat and stared out at the garden. Will put aside his book and pulled up
his legs to make room. 'I could hear all the yelling,' he said, chin on knees.

 'Wasn't anything,' James said. 'Just stupid Barbara again. Bossing. Pick up this, don't touch that. And
Mary joining in, twitter twitter, twitter. You'd think this house was big enough, but there's always people.'

 They both looked out of the window. The snow lay thin and apologetic over the world. That wide grey
sweep was the lawn, with the straggling trees of the orchard still dark beyond; the white squares were the
roofs of the garage, the old barn, the rabbit hutches, the chicken coops. Further back there were only the
flat fields of Dawsons' Farm, dimly white-striped. All the broad sky was grey, full of more snow that
refused to fall. There was no colour anywhere.

 'Four days to Christmas,' Will said. 'I wish it would snow properly.'

 'And your birthday tomorrow.'

 'Mmm.' He had been going to say that too, but it would have been too much like a reminder. And the
gift he most wished for on his birthday was something nobody could give him: it was snow, beautiful,
deep, blanketing snow, and it never came. At least this year there was the grey sprinkle, better than
nothing.

 He said, remembering a duty: 'I haven't fed the rabbits yet. Want to come?'

 Booted and muffled, they clumped out through the sprawling kitchen. A full symphony orchestra was
swelling out of the radio; their eldest sister Gwen was slicing onions and singing; their mother was bent
broad-beamed and red-faced over an oven. 'Rabbits!' she shouted, when she caught sight of them. 'And
some more hay from the farm!'

 'We're going!' Will shouted back. The radio let out a sudden hideous crackle of static as he passed the
table. He jumped. Mrs Stanton shrieked, 'Turn that thing DOWN.'

 Outdoors, it was suddenly very quiet. Will dipped out a pail of pellets from the bin in the farm-smelling
barn, which was not really a barn at all, but a long, low building with a tiled roof, once a stable. They
tramped through the thin snow to the row of heavy wooden hutches, leaving dark foot-marks on the hard
frozen ground.

 Opening doors to fill the feed-boxes, Will passed, frowning. Normally the rabbits would be huddled
sleepily in corners, only the greedy ones coming twitch-nosed forward to eat. Today they seemed
restless and uneasy, rustling to and fro, banging against their wooden walls; one or two even leapt back in
alarm when he opened their doors. He came to his favourite rabbit, named Chelsea, and reached in as
usual to rub him affectionately behind the ears, but the animal scuffled back away from him and cringed
into a corner, the pink-rimmed eyes staring up blank and terrified.
 

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