A quiet little street, on the outside each house looks different. All with basements, some with one level on top, some with two, all painted a different assortment of soft natural normal house colors. No two a like, but all looking like they belong in the grouping of which they'd been gathered. Inside, each one identical, split entry ways. The up routing stairs taking you to a living room and a kitchen with a hallway to your right. The down routing stairs taking you to a basement that was never just storage space. Always carpeted and tiled, a family room for some, office space for others, an extra bedroom for one child too many, perhaps a laundry room, a game room complete with pool table, or a playroom for the nest nowhere near empty.
Nothing suspicious, nothing wrong. Neighbors that knew each other enough to smile back and forth when they retrieved the mail, but not sociable enough to start a nomad weekly dinner party amongst themselves. But there are no perfect worlds, if it seems too good to be true, it always is. If for some reason it truly begins as wholesome as it seems, the fantasy can never last. In the current century every upstanding gentleman, every cheery housewife, every cozy family, will end up having something to hide. The uncle who molested their youngest, the daughter who steals from her own family to feed an ugly drug habit, the grandma with a klepto problem, the cheery hard working business man of a husband with a wife battery case stacked mile high that no judge or jury will ever see unless she turns up cold and blue, there'll always be something.

----- this is a work in progress. Which is optimistcally saying that I now have an introduction and somewhere in the midst of creating it... lost the story that goes with it. Optomistically speaking.. it's "finding its way"

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