He had been guaranteed a job with the railroad. Cleaning the cowcatchers of the locomotives after runs through farm country paid the bills.
He raised the rake above his head, ready to defend himself.
The pile of leaves had moved a few feet toward him and then growled.
Moving to Mars had done wonders for his golf game.
He was dismayed at the size of the sand bunkers though.
The greenskeeper had an easy job.
The legion entered the forest confidently, but soon the leaves turned crimson and branches blocked the sun.
The treefolk had switched sides.
As he penned the final word of his gospel, Pilate buried his face in his hands.
“I’ve got a feeling not enough people will read this one.”