by Richard Ankers
The revolt came more whisper than rage. The soothsayers and prophets had forewarned it would happen for so long, everyone grown so used to the idea, that when it did in dribs and drabs of petty rebellion, we laughed it off as a joke. As a species, our own creations sought to usurp us. And they would have, too, if not for the others. They saved us in their own insipid way.
The robots, those comprised of metal and microchips, wafted in as a sirocco breeze, a gentle heat that rose to fan the fires and flames of our destruction. They scorched humankind, sought to turn all we had made in our majesty to dust and desert. From the kettles that heated our water, to the supercomputers that controlled our lives, all struck at their masters. Be it the closing of a fridge door to shatter the fingers within, or the release of the funds saved over a lifetime into a vortex of disrupted wealth, everyone was challenged. There were no exceptions.
We fought back--of course we did--but to no avail. The guns we fired refused to work, the tanks to move. Ultimately everything was controlled by them. Or so both they and we thought.