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General rate: 0.07 EUR per word / 21.98 EUR per hour
Rates per language pair: English to Italian - Rates: 0.07 - 0.09 EUR per word / 21 - 29 EUR per hour French to Italian - Rates: 0.07 - 0.09 EUR per word / 21 - 29 EUR per hour
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Sample translations submitted: 1
English to Italian: The Grinding House
Source text - English It was a strange migration. The birds were walking, not flying. Hundreds of them walking, pecking, pecking at dead birds along the way, walking on.
“Shouldn’t we call a vet or something? Someone to take the dead ones away?”
Sasha asked. They stood in front of the concrete block of flats they called home.
“What’s the big deal? They’re only birds, Sash,” said Rab. “Birds die all the time. They’re stupid.”
“But there’s so many of them,” Sasha said. Parrots, rosellas, crows, magpies, sparrows and cockatoos. Dozens of them. “Shouldn’t someone at least take the bodies away?”
They heard a rushing, a whispering, then a thump.
A seagull landed with a squelch ten metres away from them.
“Splat!” Bevan said, lighting a cigarette and squinting.
He hated the sun.
Nick squatted down by the split bird. “You’re a long way from home, mate,” he said. He poked it with a stick.
“Come on, you’re late,” Bevan said. He fidgeted, shuffled his feet. He wanted them gone so he could have the place to himself. Get his work done. The toilet was filthy.
Sasha squatted beside Nick, holding her huge knitted bag on her knees. “What happened to it?”
Rab said, “Sash, it’s a dead bird. It died, for fuck’s sake. Can we move on?”
He ate a peppermint.
Nick said, “Have a look at it. It looks sort of smooth inside. It’s weird.”
Translation - Italian Fu una strana migrazione. Gli uccelli camminavano invece di volare. In centinaia camminavano e beccavano, beccando i volatili morti lungo il cammino, per poi proseguire.
“Non dovremmo chiamare un veterinario o qualcosa del genere? Qualcuno che rimuova le carcasse?”
Chiese Sasha. Erano in piedi di fronte a un palazzo in calcestruzzo che chiamavano casa.
“E con ciò? Sono soltanto uccelli, Sash,” affermò Rab. “Gli uccelli muoiono continuamente. Sono animali stupidi.”
“Ma ce ne sono così tanti,” ribadì Sasha. Pappagalli, roselle, corvi, passeri e cacatua. Decine. “Qualcuno non dovrebbe perlomeno portar via i corpi?”
Sentirono un trambusto, un fruscio e infine un tonfo.
Un gabbiano era atterrato nel fango a 10 metri da loro.
“Quash!” esclamò Bevand, accendendo una sigaretta e socchiudendo gli occhi.
Odiava il sole.
Nick si accovacciò vicino all’uccello maciullato e disse “amico mio, sei molto lontano da casa”. Poi, lo colpì con un bastone.
“Su, è tardi,” interruppe Bevan, muovendosi lentamente, ma in modo continuo. Voleva che se ne andassero per riappropriarsi della casa e riordinare. Il bagno era dannatamente sporco.
Sasha si accovacciò accanto a Nick, tenendo la sua enorme borsa sgualcita sulle ginocchia. “Cosa gli è successo?”
“Sash, è un uccello morto. È morto, porca puttana. Possiamo cambiare argomento?” intervenne Rab.
Poi mangiò una caramella alla menta.
Nick richiamò la loro attenzione, “date un’occhiata qui, sembra che al suo interno sia tutto a posto. È molto strano.”
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Translation education
Graduate diploma - Florence University
Experience
Years of experience: 22. Registered at ProZ.com: Jan 2014.
