James+Juniperus

Concrete Jungle by: James
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The world is already up and bustling. The yellow Crown Vic taxi cabs are already littering the streets below, stopping every once in a while to drop and pick up customers. I can see a food cart rolling up to the corner of 44th and 6th street, ready to open shop to the early birds of the morning. A blue and red neon sign begins to flicker the word ‘open’ as the Walgreens across the street begins its day at 7am sharp. Bike messengers on their colourful single-speed road bikes zip across traffic like a fly in a busy food court, sweeping away the white steam that characteristically hovers above the manholes scattered amid the pothole-ridden streets. Early morning road construction fills the air with the persistent noise of a jack hammer boring the Earth like an exaggerated woodpecker to a tree. This, along with the angry drivers honking at the pesky

bike messengers, further adds to the noise pollution. The city is shadowed by a never-ending assortment of high rise buildings, but the view of the yellow-orange, autumn coloured Central Park north from my apartment is quite a sight to behold among all the gothic architecture that surrounds it.

This is only the beginning of my day, yet so much has already been experienced. It doesn’t take much to realize why people call this city the Concrete Jungle. But

amongst all the chaos of the morning, the loud honking of the angry commuters stuck in traffic, the grumble of the floor as the subway 12 stories underneath me passes by, I feel at home…

I take a step back from contemplation, and head towards the kitchen for breakfast.

I spread butter on the rough surface of the bre- “HEY!”

“SNAP OUT OF IT!” A high-pitched, scruffy voice bellows into my left ear.

“W-wha-what?”

“Ah, now that you’re awake, Aaron,” the voice continued, “can you please tell the class what black-footed animal the aboriginals on?”

I ignore the question, in absolute disbelief of my surroundings; a green chalk board, kids my age looking at me with stern faces, and worst of all, the source of the annoying scruffy voice, my history teacher, Ms. Eisenhower.

My heart sinks.

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