Where'd The Watermelon Go?

Writers' Cramp 23/10

"I just don't get it, Jerry," Tom pointed at the damage. Again. "I mean, it looks like one of the animals got in there and, well, went wild, but..."

"I see it mate, but, yeah... but we checked. Again... same as the last time, all of the cages were locked, none of the animals were missing and unless you're suggesting Bertha can climb out of her pen—"

Tom looked at Jerry and rolled his eyes. The very thought was ridiculous; there was no way Bertha was pulling her bulk over the cage walls... even if watermelons were her favourite food, if she'd got into the stores, there would have been ample evidence, a footprint or two and some damned witnesses at the very least — it's not like seven tonnes of african elephant could sneak through the camp without somebody noticing... let alone without destroying her enclosure!

"I tell ya mate," Tom whispered, "it ain't no animal... no, there's something seriously spooky going on here. It looked like a tornado blew through there on the cameras—"

"Cameras?" Jerry interrupted, "Since when do we have cameras back here?"

"Well," Tom hedged, "after the last time... I had to know. But—" Tom's shoulders sagged as he let out a long, resigned sigh. "Wasted money, I got nothing. Nobody came in through the door, it was peaceful one moment, and then all hell broke loose - but I couldn't see anything, a flash of grey and then dust and shit were blowing all over the place!"

Jerry stared at his long-time friend, lights from the big top casting shadows across his face. He crossed his arms tightly and leant against the doorframe. ‘So, what are you saying? That we've got a ghost elephant on our hands?”

"Ghost, yeah, sure... something..."

"Whatever mate, you know I've got to go tell Marge, she ain't gonna wanna hear about no ghosts, or 'something', Halloween or not! And she's probably gonna be pissed about those cameras... GDPR or some shit. So"

Jerry shot Tom a pained look. "Right, whatever - the cameras are the problem here." He turned and hurried off down the corridor, leaving Tom shaking his head.

Tom exhaled slowly, glancing back at the chaos and grabbing the least damaged watermelon to show his boss before turning and making his way to Marge's trailer.

She was not going to be a happy camper when he told her it had happened again, and that they still had no explanation!

He strode into the night, face grim - the familiar sounds coming from the big top doing little to comfort him or slow his racing heart.

The air back here was thick with the scent of sawdust and shit; the jubilant cheers faded into the background as he stepped confidently into the animal pens. Tom glanced up at the flickering string lights above, half-expecting one to buzz out as if foreshadowing impending trouble.

He turned the corner, and a low rumble echoed from the darkness—a sound too deep to be described as a grunt. For just a moment, he paused, his breath hitching in his throat. Were the animals uneasy, sensing something amiss? Or, worse, were they roaming free and hunting... He shook his head, cursing Jerry for putting strange ideas into his head as he stared into the shadows, half expecting to see eyes staring back at him.

He picked up the pace. Marge’s trailer, adorned with colourful banners he knew would be flapping softly in the night breeze, and the safety it represented, was within spitting distance when he froze, feeling the eyes on the back of his neck.

The night had turned silent. He didn't want to do it, but he turned. Slowly. His held breath whooshing out as he saw the empty path.

***

Marge stood firm, hands on her hips, as the police examined the chaotic scene. “So, you found the victim when?”

“About an hour ago,” she replied flatly as she glanced uneasily at the overturned crates and scattered hay, eyes skipping over the red stain on the sawdust.

“And you’re certain it was Tom?”

"As certain as I could be," her voice trembled, "whatever did it... left quite a mess."

The officer nodded, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the cats prowling their enclosures. "They're all accounted for? No signs of damage to the pens?"

"Nothing," she admitted, swallowing hard. It felt as if the very air had thickened with an unspoken fear. "Just this, and the damage to the stores and the cats didn't do,” she waved in Tom's general direction, "that... it looks like he's been through a crusher for goodness' sake!"

The officer groaned as Marge turned and emptied the contents of her stomach. Again. She was staring at the crushed watermelon in Bertha's pen when the familiar tune started blaring from the main tent's loudspeakers.

"I saw a peanut stand, heard a rubber band, I saw a needle that winked its eye..."

The cheerful melody clashed with the chaos, each note a mocking reminder of how absurdly fragile their circus world was. As Marge steeled herself against the rising tide of despair, she caught Bertha’s gaze.

Maybe it was the shock, more likely it was the vodka she'd swallowed before the police arrived, but she would have sworn the enormous elephant met her eyes and gave a slow, almost mischievous wink as the song continued to echo around the field.

"But I think I will have seen everything. When I see an elephant fly."