Go Away Walrus

Todd cowered beneath the bedclothes as the slump, scuff, slump edged closer. The walrus was in his bedroom again. Its huge flippers flopped each time its blubber slapped the carpet.

Go away walrus.

Slump. Scuff. Slump.

Go away walrus.

Todd extended his chubby fingers to curl back a corner of his duvet. A gigantic bristled nose snuffled at the edge of the bed, salvia dribbled down its razor tusks, and two beady eyes glared from its domelike head.

He pulled the covers tighter.

Go away walrus.

The bed started to tremble as it climbed aboard. Todd bit his lip to keep from screaming, convinced this walrus was a fire breather who wanted to eat him.

A bunch of black whiskers penetrated his fortress. The walrus poked its head under the covers, huffing and puffing, obviously ready to let loose the fire.

Go away walrus.

The wire whiskers brushed his cheek. Syrup snot dripped from its wet, sticky nose. White teeth gleamed between its rubber lips.

Go away walrus.

Sniff. Snuff. Snort.

The fire rumbled in its chest.

Todd screamed and ran. His leap out of bed and over the walrus was heroic if not downright valiant. He sprinted for the door, almost made it, but was defeated by the toy box.


He fell, and the walrus was upon him.

Todd covered his eyes and cried as its tongue lolled from its muzzle to lap at him. He was fighting the jaws of death when the bedroom light flicked on.

His mum stood in the doorway, shaking her head, hands on her hips.

The walrus was gone, startled by the light. It would be back soon, though. It never went far.

Todd could still smell the fish on its breath.


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