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by Kate Jones

Carrie Sutter has made it.

She grew up poor, on a housing estate in Halifax, the only daughter of a single mother. She slept in a single bed in a cramped bedroom with her three younger brothers; the walls were damp and her horizons were narrow.

But Carrie Sutter had big dreams. Boy, did she dream big, in that cramped room with the damp walls.

Mostly, she dreamt of escape.

When she was seventeen, Carrie Sutter packed a bag and crossed the Atlantic to find her fortune.

Today, she’s found it. Her boss has just made her a junior partner in the firm. She’s standing now, in her new corner office, on the 93rd floor, in the heart of Lower Manhattan. She sips from a tall skinny latte, staring out across the Lower Manhattan skyline that she loves. She’s come a long way, she thinks, her future sparkling beneath her feet.

She only has a few seconds to contemplate how far she’s come before she spots what looks like a huge metal nose about to collide with her window on the 93rd floor.

The last thing Carrie Sutter tastes is Starbucks skinny latte mixed with her peach lip gloss. The last thing she sees is breaking glass.

And the very last thing Carrie Sutter thinks of is the mother and brothers she left behind, and that safe single bed back in Halifax.


Kate Jones is a freelance writer and yoga lover based in the UK. Her work has appeared in various genres and places, including Spelk, The Nottingham Review, The Short Story and Feminartsy. She blogs at writerinresidenceblog.wordpress.com and tweets @katejonespp.

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