Isle of Aye

A short story I'm working on. It's silly.

Isle of Aye

I wasn’t sure what it was, at first, but that’s only because my eyes were unfocused. And that was only because I had fallen forever to land on a downy mattress, fluffed with a dozen pillows. Anyway, after a moment, I recognized it as a tulip.
It glared at me for a bit, turning a purplish hue, before straightening up and impatiently demanding I move. I rolled over and fell off the Flower Bed, and the tulip chortled. Or at least I imagined it did. Having never heard a tulip chortle, I could only guess as to what that might sound like. And I guessed it sounded like this gentleman/vegetation.
I stood up and brushed myself off. The air was pleasant, the view was pleasant, the smells were pleasant, but something didn’t seem quite right. For one, I couldn’t remember my name, but the Wal-Mart sticker on my shirt had “Michael” scribbled on it in childish hand-writing; also, one of my shoes was missing. The later didn’t distress me all that much, since shoes are bound to be lost when falling out of reality. Or into it, depending on one’s point-of-view.
“Where am I?” I queried, not the least bit worried I was addressing a giant flower.
It swayed a bit, sizing me up (I assumed; what else would it be doing?). “The Isle, of course,” it meowed. Now, you might be thinking, as was I, that this was poignantly absurd - flowers don’t meow. Yet this one did, and who was I to argue?
“The Isle?” I repeated in a ponderous tone. It was a tone I preferred to use to imply the person (or thing) I was dialoging with had been too ambiguous. The tulip understood, for soon he continued.
“The Isle of Aye.”
“An eye?”
“Of Aye,” he corrected; and if you think it was embarrassing being corrected by foliage, well, you’re only on the first chapter.
“Whose eye?”
“Not an eye. Aye, as in a word of assent, agreement, or confirmation.”
“Ah,” I said, the concept being much more abundantly clear. The tulip was apparently bored with our conversation, so he climbed into his bed, and promptly fell asleep.
The Isle of Aye was a lovely place. Green grass, rolling hills, smooth mountain sides covered in dozens of waterfalls that ran down to form crystal lakes. Flowers and fruit trees populated the landscape. But oddly enough, the Isle was not surrounded by water.
“Why do they call it an island?”
“The Island,” growled Sergei. Sergei was a GroundHog. At that time, I knew very little about anything, but that this rodent was named Sergei, I was more than certain. He poked his head out of a little hole, chattered his teeth together and stared blankly.
“Where did you come from?” I asked, but only to be polite.
“From under the ground,” he said simply, and it all became clear to me.
“There is no water,” I explained.
“Are.”
“What?”
“Are no water,” he said definitively.
“Water is singular,” I argued.
“Nay, water is plural. You don’t have a ‘cup of a water.’ You have a ‘cup of water;’ like a ‘cup of monkeys.’”
I had to concede to his superior logic. “There are no water around the Isle.”
“Your point?”
“Why do they call it an island?”
Sergei sighed, which, frankly, is endearing in a GroundHog. “The Isle. Because it is not connected to land.”
I nodded. It most certainly wasn’t. Hanging in a pinkish-orange cloud-filled sky, absent of any support or means of floating (which it was), the Isle was reminiscent of a paradisiacal haven. Or a prison. A paradisiacal prison. “Do you really say that?”
“Say what?” he asked.
“’Cup of monkeys?’”
“Only when they all get out, of course.”
“Of course.” That only made sense. I began to walk away.
“Stop!” he bellowed suddenly.
“What is it?”
“You are walking on my ground!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This ground is mine, and you are standing on it. It’s mine!” the GroundHog said.
“Shall I stand there?” I pointed to a small river bank.
“No! That is mine too!”
“What about-”
“Mine!”
I frowned. Sergei had issues. “Aren’t you supposed to help me?”
He looked dumbfounded, then hung his head. “You can stand there. If you must.”
I smiled. I counted that as a win, and defeating furry rodents in battles of wits was a prime source of self-satisfaction. “I have questions.”
“I might have answers. I might not. I’m only a subterranean rodent.”
“First, how did I get here?”
“Dimensional vortex.”
“Really?”
“No.” Sergei sighed again. “You are too gullible. Dimensional vortexes are green, fool.”
I bowed my head, a bit ashamed. Of course dimensional vortices are green. I was scared to ask my next question for fear of even greater embarrassment, but I felt that I must. “What is this place-”
“The Isle of-”
“-for?”
“Oh.” His tail bristled. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You don’t know?”
“Of course I know! I’m your guide, remember? I know everything.” He paused. “Well, everything I know of, that is.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
He sat down and put up three fingers. “One, because it would not be prudent to hand out that information willy-nilly now, would it? No, it wouldn’t.” He put down his fingers and nodded twice.
“And?”
“What?” He looked at me with a blank expression and went back to brushing his tail.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“Practically or theoretically?”
“What’s the difference?” I asked, but only because I thought he didn’t know.
“One I can tell you, one I can’t.”
“Oh. Practically, then.”
He grinned. I think. “You are supposed to leave.”
“But I just got here.”
“I don’t make the rules.” He shrugged and began digging in the dirt.
“Will you help me?”
“I suppose I must.” Sergei scratched the back of his ear. “Contractually obligated.” I mentally breathed an air of relief (which isn’t easy). Bound by paper, I had no doubts Sergei would follow through with his duties.