Sand without beaches.........what a waste. With that thought in mind a small bottle with the name “Jaime” was placed in the cluttered desk. The letters in multicolor, the font childish. The contents supposedly were sand, though in the grungy light one could say it was nothing but dirt.
A pair of worn cowboy boots soon accompanied the little bottle on the desk, flecks of sand falling barely visible to cover the crisp white pages underneath. In the room the man’s face would barely have been visible from the door, a hat and beard possibly made out, and then a flash of light from a match. A low burn soon accompanied, and a gentle stream of smoke whisped to the ceiling to find freedom from the gloom. The fire caught for a second at a strong inhale, before a quill and scroll took to life hanging in mid air. “Operation report.......uhhhh 23 lobo”
The quill diligently marked down the words from the gruff voice, a clinking and hiss soon heard as a green bottle was cracked open. The bottle cap hitting the floor. “Operation start point....Ministry of Magic London, subject grey water, initial staging Bocephus Millers office,first destination London City Airport LCY.....final destination Mali”
His voice was coarse like the sand on his boots, and as if this very thought came across his mind, he took a long draft from the bottle. His eyes glazed over for a minute as if he was reliving the events prior to expressing them for the quill to make permanent. Clearing his throat, the story began to unfold in earnest, all hesitation had seemed to vanish......and the story unfolded.....
“Hang down your head Tom Dooley....Hang down your head and cry.....Hang down your head Tom Dooley....poor boy your blind to die”
The song played on the radio next to him. The inner workings magicked so it would work in his ministry office. Bo’s eyes scanned the report to make sure the details had all been caught, and for the most part they were all there. His wand moved gingerly across the length of parchment, tapping words and correcting them where the quill had misspelled due to his accent. Yea.....the details where all there, yet the feelings and reality of what had happened rested elsewhere, hopefully to be drowned with the last drops from the third bottle......
Underneath the last paragraph of report details, Bo’s quill scrawled his signature, barely recognizable as letters. Below his signature, his quill continued. The total cost of the mission, estimated collateral damage and extra expenses not accounted for, equipment used.....and finally casualties. The briefest pause, and then the number 4 was written, followed by three names, and another pause before “Jamie Suthers” the last S written even more uneven as if the task had had more weight in the light feather between his callused fingers.
Folding the scroll he held it up to a small contraption his his office, the paper moved through it before it started to fly of its own accord to the head of magical law enforcements inbox.
Standing up, and placing the bottles in the bin, he gave the small space a look over. Shuffling in the dark he opened one drawer pulling out a small picture frame. Rubbing out the end of the cigar on the photo, he heard more than felt the smalle glass pane crack. With a backhand motion, he brushed it into the bin to live with the bottles. Turning, he walked from the room without looking back. Had there been an observer, an audience, they’d have seen by the dying light of the hallway, a pretty blonde smiling and winking from the photo, her face now covered in ash.........no knowledge that the true her had met the same fate.
by 
