In “Z-Sky Journal” (2018)
science-fiction (short story)
“There’s Ted,” my wife said. “Don’t stop.”
It was too late, of course. I had slowed to make the turn into our driveway and Ted was already clumping toward us, his face brick-red above the collar of his lime-green polo shirt, sandaled feet trampling the dry grass of his lawn.
“Heard the latest?” he said. “Robots!”
“Like the ones that trashed New York?” I said, forgetting that you should never give Ted the slightest opening.
He shook his head. “No, sir. Not giant robots this time. Regular-sized robots. Made of some kind of shiny metal. A whole army of them.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see them marching down Middlewood Street, gleaming steel feet crashing in rhythm on the cracked asphalt.