❞ رواية The Chocolate War ❝

❞ رواية The Chocolate War ❝

The Chocolate War

They murdered him.
As he turned to take the ball, a dam burst against the side of his head and a
hand grenade shattered his stomach. Engulfed by nausea, he pitched toward the grass.
His mouth encountered gravel, and he spat frantically, afraid that some of his teeth
had been knocked out. Rising to his feet, he saw the field through drifting gauze but
held on until everything settled into place, like a lens focusing, making the world
sharp again, with edges.
The second play called for a pass. Fading back, he picked up a decent block and
cocked his arm, searching for a receiver--- maybe the tall kid they called The Goober.
Suddenly, he was caught from behind and whirled violently, a toy boat caught in a
whirlpool. Landing on his knees, hugging the ball, he urged himself to ignore the pain
that gripped his groin, knowing that it was important to betray no sign of distress,
remembering The Goober's advice; "Coach is testing you, testing, and he's looking for
guts."
I've got guts, Jerry murmured, getting up by degrees, careful not to displace any
of his bones or sinews. A telephone rang in his ears. Hello, hello, I'm still here. When
he moved his lips, he tasted the acid of dirt and grass and gravel. He was aware of the
other players around him, helmeted and grotesque, creatures from an unknown world.
He had never felt so lonely in his life, abandoned, defenseless.
On the third play, he was hit simultaneously by three of them: one, his knees;
another, his stomach; a third, his head--- the helmet no protection at all. His body
seemed to telescope into itself but all the parts didn't fit, and he was stunned by the
knowledge that pain isn't just one thing--- it is cunning and various, sharp here and
sickening there, burning here and clawing there. He clutched himself as he hit the
ground. The ball squirted away. His breath went away, like the ball--- a terrible
stillness pervaded him--- and then, at the onset of panic, his breath came back again.
His lips sprayed wetness and he was grateful for the sweet cool air that filled his
lungs. But when he tried to get up, his body mutinied against movement. He decided
the hell with it. Robert Cormier -
من Stories and novels كتب تعلم اللغة الإنجليزية - مكتبة كتب تعلم اللغات.

نُبذة عن الكتاب:
The Chocolate War

1974م - 1441هـ
The Chocolate War

They murdered him.
As he turned to take the ball, a dam burst against the side of his head and a
hand grenade shattered his stomach. Engulfed by nausea, he pitched toward the grass.
His mouth encountered gravel, and he spat frantically, afraid that some of his teeth
had been knocked out. Rising to his feet, he saw the field through drifting gauze but
held on until everything settled into place, like a lens focusing, making the world
sharp again, with edges.
The second play called for a pass. Fading back, he picked up a decent block and
cocked his arm, searching for a receiver--- maybe the tall kid they called The Goober.
Suddenly, he was caught from behind and whirled violently, a toy boat caught in a
whirlpool. Landing on his knees, hugging the ball, he urged himself to ignore the pain
that gripped his groin, knowing that it was important to betray no sign of distress,
remembering The Goober's advice; "Coach is testing you, testing, and he's looking for
guts."
I've got guts, Jerry murmured, getting up by degrees, careful not to displace any
of his bones or sinews. A telephone rang in his ears. Hello, hello, I'm still here. When
he moved his lips, he tasted the acid of dirt and grass and gravel. He was aware of the
other players around him, helmeted and grotesque, creatures from an unknown world.
He had never felt so lonely in his life, abandoned, defenseless.
On the third play, he was hit simultaneously by three of them: one, his knees;
another, his stomach; a third, his head--- the helmet no protection at all. His body
seemed to telescope into itself but all the parts didn't fit, and he was stunned by the
knowledge that pain isn't just one thing--- it is cunning and various, sharp here and
sickening there, burning here and clawing there. He clutched himself as he hit the
ground. The ball squirted away. His breath went away, like the ball--- a terrible
stillness pervaded him--- and then, at the onset of panic, his breath came back again.
His lips sprayed wetness and he was grateful for the sweet cool air that filled his
lungs. But when he tried to get up, his body mutinied against movement. He decided
the hell with it.
.
المزيد..

تعليقات القرّاء:

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 Chocolate War    

They murdered him.
As he turned to take the ball, a dam burst against the side of his head and a
hand grenade shattered his stomach. Engulfed by nausea, he pitched toward the grass.
His mouth encountered gravel, and he spat frantically, afraid that some of his teeth
had been knocked out. Rising to his feet, he saw the field through drifting gauze but
held on until everything settled into place, like a lens focusing, making the world
sharp again, with edges.
The second play called for a pass. Fading back, he picked up a decent block and
cocked his arm, searching for a receiver--- maybe the tall kid they called The Goober.
Suddenly, he was caught from behind and whirled violently, a toy boat caught in a
whirlpool. Landing on his knees, hugging the ball, he urged himself to ignore the pain
that gripped his groin, knowing that it was important to betray no sign of distress,
remembering The Goober's advice; "Coach is testing you, testing, and he's looking for
guts."
I've got guts, Jerry murmured, getting up by degrees, careful not to displace any
of his bones or sinews. A telephone rang in his ears. Hello, hello, I'm still here. When
he moved his lips, he tasted the acid of dirt and grass and gravel. He was aware of the
other players around him, helmeted and grotesque, creatures from an unknown world.
He had never felt so lonely in his life, abandoned, defenseless.
On the third play, he was hit simultaneously by three of them: one, his knees;
another, his stomach; a third, his head--- the helmet no protection at all. His body
seemed to telescope into itself but all the parts didn't fit, and he was stunned by the
knowledge that pain isn't just one thing--- it is cunning and various, sharp here and
sickening there, burning here and clawing there. He clutched himself as he hit the
ground. The ball squirted away. His breath went away, like the ball--- a terrible
stillness pervaded him--- and then, at the onset of panic, his breath came back again.
His lips sprayed wetness and he was grateful for the sweet cool air that filled his
lungs. But when he tried to get up, his body mutinied against movement. He decided
the hell with it. 
 

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سنة النشر : 1974م / 1394هـ .
حجم الكتاب عند التحميل : 0.8MB .
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المؤلف:
الناشر:
[New York] : Pantheon Books
كتب [New York] : Pantheon Books.المزيد.. كتب [New York] : Pantheon Books
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