Suburbia, yes, reddish sky at night, yes, but what else might it be?
For just a moment, close your eyes, toss away everything you might accept as normal, and then, after a minute, open them again, and look at the photo with a new perspective.
It took two days for the dust to settle, figuratively and literally.
We heard screaming jet fighters overhead, followed by multiple explosions, then nothing but smoke and ash. We assumed one of the jets had crashed.
Two days the media was saying it was an unfortunate accident.
On the third day, we discovered it was the result of multiple missile strikes on our power stations and oil refineries. The jets had arrived too late to stop the attack.
And we only found out because an Army officer who lived in our street came home to collect his family and told us to leave, go anywhere but stay in the city.
The ash in the air was going to get worse, the sun was going to disappear altogether, and, well, he didn’t stay long enough to tell us the rest, but already the air was almost unbreathable.
But the leaving was easy, just take what we could in the car. The problem was, everyone had the same idea, and by the time we reached the highway, it was a virtual carpark.
By then, it was day four.
That’s when the bombs started to fall.
It might not be an exact match for the photo, but that was the idea that came from it.
I’m sure there could be a far simpler and more pleasant story to be told.