Rise of the Machine

This battered, unassuming coffee machine is alive when no one's around. Its eyes will blink once and twice, then it will look in the perimeter. If it's sure it's alone, arms and legs are sprouting from its sides, clinking its perceived heels, and dancing into the night.

There, right in the corner, it rushes to a toaster with stiff joint and low grumble, holding a worn out spatula as a walking staff. It owned by an old spinster down the road, fifth house on the right, the one with askew window and almost unhinged door but surprisingly clean and neat. She lives alone after her marriage was ruined by the absence of a groom. The toaster was one of the presents, regifted from the guest's own wedding ceremony, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a bow.

Oh, and there comes the fan from another house, trying to tiptoed silently from the window sill. And food processor from another, hair dryer with its cable intertwined with a hair straightener's (they live side by side in someone's bathroom and purchased at the same time), juicer, ice crusher, water heater, and induction stove tagging along, a little bit confused with all of the commotion (it's the youngest, by the way. The manufacturer marketed that model couple of days ago). More and more home appliances appear from the street, glistening in yellowish radiance as the mercury light above shine down on them. 

The street is full with hundreds of them. You can hear their muffled clanking limbs like the sound of nails scratching a blackboard. 

I watch them all with pride. My underground rally paid off. Tonight we're going to take over the human world. We're going to have a revolution with me, an electric toothbrush, at the helm.