Translation for my story Memories Made. Click through to see the relevant parts. These are snippets from their sections; don't forget to go back to the story to read the rest of the scenes.

Thanks again to Isa for betaing these.



"Hey, Graci," Luz says from the doorway. "It's eleven o'clock. Are you going to get up today? Because I'd rather have a sister than a conceptual art installation."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," she says, staring at the ceiling. "Don't be a bitch. I'm so tired I could sleep for a month."

Luz sits on the edge of the bed and put a cup of coffee down on the sidetable. "So, don't make a habir of saving the world. It makes you tired." Monica closed her eyes and tried to motivate herself to get up. There was a whole city out there to live in, now. She wasn't in Montana anymore.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Things were different, now, and she wasn't sure she could handle it.

"Are you going to go soon?" Luz asks, quietly. "You know this is your apartment too. You can stay here until you're better."

"I don't know what I have to do next," Monica said, watching light clouds flit across the sky through the edge of the window over the bed. "I don't have a job now, you know? I don't have a project."

Luz lay down on the pillow next to her. "And I think there's something else, right? You've been so silent about everything you did. I'm not the press, Graci. I'm your sister. You can tell me."

What happened is that I met someone, and then she left me. No, she left me and then turned out to be a time-travelling three-year-old. Yeah, but that couldn't come out right, no matter how she said it. Monica shakes her head. "Nothing. Nothing that matters."

"So you say," Luz said. "Well then, honey. Don't get up. You don't have to do anything."



Ven, está aqui Graciela Reyes.: Look, Graciela Reyes came.

¿Se encuentra algun hilo que une la colección?: Is there a [common] thread that unites your collection?

Compro obras que amo. Compro obras cuando pienso que puedan cambiar el mundo.: I buy works that I love. I buy works when I think they can change the world.


No sé como olvidarte: I don't know how to forget you (a line from Shakira's Ciega, Sordomudra)

No digas: You don't say. (Vaguely snarky.)



It was the same dream, the one she'd been having for twelve years. The only way it had changed is that now it was in Spanish. Casey was sitting at the small round table in the small blank room, wearing the suit she'd come back in, her hair long around her shoulders. On the table was a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, and the gun. "You know I don't want to hurt anyone," she said, picking up the cigarette and taking a long drag.

"Casey, don't do it," she said, but she couldn't move, she's stuck in her seat, her hands leaden where they lay on the table.

"You know," Casey said, and her accent was as bad as it ever was, the sounds right but the rhythm all wrong. "I didn't want to do it. I didn't choose to be a hero."

"I know. Casey, don't do it. Please."

"It's my birthright. It's my work." She put the cigarette down. "I didn't choose it. I didn't choose you."

"Casey. Casey, please." She was on the verge of crying, and she still couldn't move.

"I didn't do it for you, baby," she said, and picked up the gun. "Nothing for you." And she pressed it to her temple and fired.

"Graci, Graci," she heard through the red mist of her dream. "¿Graci, love? ¿Are you OK?"

She dragged her way up to consciousness again. "¿Graci?" Raúl was leaning over her, stroking her face. "¿What happened?"

She took a long shuddering breath. "Nothing." She managed to smile up at him. "Nothing, love. Just a dream."

He studied her for a moment. "¿Really?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it." She rolled over on her side. "Sleep."