Skipping Iron

Spotted a dense slab of blackened industrial slag wedged between two sun-bleached driftwood logs. Heavy, flat as a boot heel, and ground smooth by years of brown current. I leaned the bat against the timber, locked my fingers around the rough stone edge, and squared my stance in the wet gravel. Didn't mess around with an easy toss. Cocked my shoulder back, torqued my hips, and whipped that slag skimming hard across the river chop. One, two, four violent skips cutting white spray before the water swallowed it with a solid smack. Arm feels loose. Still got the heat.