My sister cried the day they dismantled the fair. She was in love with the calliope man who was a rough type with thick lips and a face that had seen better times. She stood by the instrument while it played, holding out the man’s trilby and dancing, showing her ankles.

He promised to take her with him, but in the morning, the man and his hat were gone. For fifteen years the fair has come to town and my sister still waits to hear those breathy whistles. She’s fifty now, too old they say, for the calliope man, or anyone else.

***

This is a 100-word story for the Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read some more inspired by the picture (this week provided by Ted Strutz) or here to join in and write your own.

I only recently learned what a calliope was, and it’s such a lovely sounding that I wanted to use it in a story. Here’s an example of one.

***

I’m really excited to let you know that my second book, Swimming Lessons, has just been acquired by Fig Tree (an imprint of Penguin). Click here to find out more.