I don't own this book and i don't own the characters.
We lived in a smug California valley. Rolling ranch, surrounded by shrugs of oak jeweled hills. Green for two brilliant months sometime and around spring, burnt toast brown the rest of the year.
Just over an unremarkable mountain stretches the endless Pacific. Morning here come wrapped in droops of gray mist. Most days it burns off by noon. Other days it just hangs on and on. Smothers like a wet blanket.
Three towns triangulate the valley, Three corners, each with a unique flavor:
weathered Old west;
Antiques and wine tasting; Just off the freeway boring.
Snack in the center is the town where we live, and it is the most unique of all, with its windmills and cobbled sidewalks, designed to carry tourists to Denmark. Denmark, California style.
The house line smooth black streets, prim rows of postcard pretty dwellings, coiffed and manicured from curb to chimney. Like Kaeleigh and me, they're perfect on the outside. But behind the Norman Rockwell facades, each holds its secret.
Like Kaeleighs and mine, some are dark. Untellable. Practically unbelievable.
YOU ARE READING
Identical
PoetryI dont own this book and i dont own the characters. Kaeleigh and Raeanne are identical down to the dimple. As daughters of a district court judge father and a politician mother, they are an all American family on the surface. Behind the facade each...
