This site uses cookies.
Some of these cookies are essential to the operation of the site,
while others help to improve your experience by providing insights into how the site is being used.
For more information, please see the ProZ.com privacy policy.
This person has a SecurePRO™ card. Because this person is not a ProZ.com Plus subscriber, to view his or her SecurePRO™ card you must be a ProZ.com Business member or Plus subscriber.
Affiliations
This person is not affiliated with any business or Blue Board record at ProZ.com.
English to Chinese: I like literary creation General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English Sir Brian Flockart did not want to be a knight. It was all very well to live in a castle and have "Sir" in front of your name, but people expected you to be brave and do daring deeds like c1imbing high towers to rescue screaming princesses. Sir Brian Flockart had no head for heights and no heart for girls who screamed. "Why can't we live in a nice little hut and keep cows?" he complained to his mother Lady Flockart.
She was used to his complaints. "Silly boy," she said, knitting wire into a metal vest for the jousting match. "Do you want people to think you're a peasant?"
"I want to be a peasant," He wrung his hands. "Peasants are so lucky. They grow potatoes and cabbages and they don't have to do dangerous things."
"There, there," she soothed. "You always get nerves the day before the tournament. Think what an honor it is to be on the king's list."
Sir Brian gave a heavy sigh. It was no honor at all. The king could not spell and had left "lock" out of Sir Brian's last name. At last year's jousting tournament, when the scroll of knights had been unwound, people had fallen about laughing and had made rude noises.
"Your father loved jousting," his mother reminded him.
"Well, I don't," growled Sir Brian." I hate people poking sharp things at me."
"This year will be different," she said. "This year you will win."
"No, I won't." He gloomily thought of all the jousting tournaments he'd been in. Last year he fell off his horse before the lance could knock him off. The year before he'd ridden in the wrong direction. The year before that, he got a fright when his name was called, and the lower part of his armour went rusty. He sighed again and stood up to look out a castle window. Outside, the forest was spring green and Meg the dairymaid was walking through buttercups, carrying a milk pail.
"Mother, I think I will go for a little walk."
She frowned. "Not without your armour, dear. Not without your sword. The dragon's been seen in the forest."
"Yes, Mother." He took a few steps towards the door, but she rose, dropping her knitting with a clang on the floor. "Armour, Brian! Sword!"
He couldn't tell her that the dragon was very nice. He and Meg fed it chicken legs and oat cakes left over from feasts. He struggled into his armour put on the breastplate and fitted the helmet over his head.
"Sword!" his mother reminded him.
"Yes, Mother. I heard you, Mother."
As he clanked down 222 stone stairs, he thought Meg might have gone home by now. Oh crumbs! Oh misery! Being a knight was worse than having the plague.
Adobe Acrobat, Adobe Illustrator, Adobe Photoshop, AutoCAD, Dreamweaver, FrameMaker, Frontpage, Google Translator Toolkit, Microsoft Excel, Microsoft Office Pro, Microsoft Word, Pagemaker, Powerpoint
Portfolio