Direct Hit

The living room was getting stale, so I slipped past the cracked porch door and made a break for the garden. Down near the foot of the weathered stone birdbath, three glossy brown chestnuts were nestled in thick moss. Exactly what I needed. I hauled up the roundest one, squared my stance on a flat flagstone, and fired a low pitch straight across the gravel into an empty clay saucer. Sharp crack, dead center. Pure precision. I rolled the second chestnut forward with the toe of my boot. Target practice is officially open.