Flora & Ulysses

Why, Flora wondered, did everything become silent when Ulysses flew?

It had been the same in the Giant Do-Nut (at least until everyone started screaming). It was as if some small peace descended. The world became dreamy, beautiful, slow.

Flora looked around her. She smiled. The sun was shining into the kitchen, illuminating everything: Ulysses’s whiskers, the typewriter keys, her father’s upturned and smiling face, and her mother’s astonished and disbelieving one.

Even William Spiver was illuminated, his white hair glowing like a wild halo.

“What is it?” said William Spiver. “What’s going on?”

Flora’s father laughed. “Do you see, Phyllis? Do you? Anything can happen.”

Ulysses floated above them. He zoomed down to the ground and then went shooting back up to the ceiling. He looked behind him and performed a lazy, midair backflip.

“For the love of Pete,” said Flora’s mother in a strange and wooden voice.

“Someone tell me something,” said William Spiver.

Ulysses dived down again. He flew past William Spiver’s right ear.

“Acccck,” said William Spiver. “What was that?”

“The squirrel,” said Flora’s mother in her strange, new voice. “He is flying.” She stood up suddenly. “Right,” she said. “Okay. I have to go upstairs and take a nap.”

Which was an odd thing for her to say because Flora’s mother was not, in any way, a napper. In fact, she was an anti-napper. She didn’t believe in naps at all. She often said that they were a big, fat waste of time.

“Yes, a little nap. That is what I need.”

Flora’s mother walked out of the kitchen and closed the door behind her.

Ulysses landed on the table next to the typewriter.

“It’s not that shocking,” said William Spiver. “There are flying squirrels, you know. They exist. In fact, there are some theories that posit that all squirrels are descended from the flying squirrel. In any case, flying squirrels themselves are a documented fact.”

Ulysses looked at William Spiver and then over at Flora.

He reached out a paw and hit a key on the typewriter.

The single clack echoed through the kitchen.

“How about flying squirrels who type?” said Flora.

“Not as well documented,” admitted William Spiver.

Ulysses hit another key. And then another.

“Holy bagumba,” said Flora’s father. “He flies. He vanquishes cats. And he types.”

“He’s a superhero,” said Flora.

“It’s amazing,” said her father. “It’s wonderful. But I think I better go have a quick word with your mother about the whole, um, situation.”