Written by Jacob Ibrag
The sky above sang blue when she whispered
those three little words. ‘Where’s my money.’
‘It’s coming’, I pleaded. She wasn’t having it
though, I might have as well been talking to the
wall. This was the world, and these were its rules.
Loans are meant to be paid, one way or another.
Word is bond, or it’s high interest rates till
death do I part. She screamed out ‘next’ through
the tiny holes in the Plexiglas. Hope is for those
who can afford it. You misunderstand me,
underestimate the look in my eyes. It was all
too premature Ms. Moneybags. I took out a
check and smacked it against the glass.
My April fool, the joke is on you.