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the stars are made of fire

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Shosanna's color is red.

A little obvious, perhaps. Red like blood, like lipstick, like Paris women and France's most famous cabaret. Red like revenge and like love and like hate and like fire.

But Shosanna was a farmgirl once, all shades of brown and hand-me-down boots, calloused hands and sturdy wool. She'd never been to the cinema, and she had a family.

(But that was once-upon-a-time, and now she owns the Le Gamaar, and now she knows that once-upon-a-times belong in movies, the film whirring in the projector and casting pretty pictures on a screen, beautiful little lies measured in millimeters but writ big as truth while the light shines through.


but she will take this chance, cast this die, however it may fall, and she will make the film tell her lie, just this once.)


A farmgirl: she wrings chickens' necks and helps slaughter sheep, the hem of her dress and the leather of her sturdy shoes spackled with horse manure and slop from the barnyard, but her mother's homemade soap and spring water can wash away anything. She lies in bed at night, skin scrubbed clean and smelling like lye, and stares out the open window at the stars.

She reaches out a hand and traces them with her finger.


But then there was the mud under the LaPadite house and then there were bullets like stars exploding and then there was bloodbloodbloodbloodblood and she ran till she didn't know how to stop and all she could taste was mud and all she could smell was blood and

--only fire can burn it all away.


Her dress is red and so is her lipstick and so are her cheeks where she was a little rough in scrubbing away her impromptu war paint. Right now, she has a gun and a plan and Marcel, and when she looks to the future, all she sees is fire, like stars exploding forever.


Above the sound of crackling fire and desperate screams and sharp machine guns, Shosanna's laughter is triumph.

(Lies burn like fire, and this is her story.)