(Page 1 of 2) Tournament of Dreams by Sean ReganSUMMARY: For the March flash fiction contest. Theme is "tournament."
The evening's opponent is familiar, the name forgotten. Shanghai, I recall, with other sensations of that contest's dreams: snow-covered jungles, a gargantuan panda with an old woman's laugh. A victory. The audience rewarded the symbolism of the extinct creature as well as my humor. I never study the dreams of my opponents; they do not matter.
The arbiter announces that the audience numbers nearly five hundred. They are each wrapped inside a sensory apparatus. The assembly is archaic, for the technology is so simple that tournaments could be held with the attendees in their homes. But they travel across the planet for these tournaments, because they are connoisseurs of dreams.
My suit fits snugly. It is an improvement upon older suits designed by men. The helmet is next, and I accept the taste sensor into my mouth. Ready, the arbiter inserts the interface below my right ear and I await the first stimuli of the active portion.
The arbiter's command is translated by the apparatus into a painful contraction of the suit upon my left shin. I discard as too safe the instant idea of bumping a low table. Instead, I imagine my shin has knocked against a horizontal bar. Other bars rise above it, and I am climbing a twisting ladder. I visualize myself climbing up into an enormous hexagonal library, with books stacked upon shelves, shelves stacked out of sight above. The ladder approaches a shelf and I imagine the scent of old books in an antique shop in St. Petersburg. Hundreds of books, and I project them of different widths, lengths and colors. Higher, I reach a hovering stand that offers a silver pot and cup. I tap the pot with my finger – the warm metal rings softly. I pour myself coffee, and its scent mixes with musty books. I relish the bitterness of the liquid.
After one minute, the transmission ends. The attendees, who experience my projection of all five senses, score each round according to whatever criteria they like; only thirty-three random scores are counted. I wait for my opponent to respond to the same stimulus and also as he starts the second round. The arbiter commands me to prepare.
The apparatus releases chemicals upon my tongue. The taste of fish. I concentrate upon the taste, knowing that many in the audience are connoisseurs of more than dreams. Swordfish, I believe, and I risk the visualization of the steak. I replicate memories of swordfish's taste and texture, its warmth after baking. I dine alone on a quiet shore in Antarctica; the fish rests on top of a curving table of blue ice that rises from the lapping ocean water. I pull at the fish with my fingers; the inside is warm to the touch. I inhale the scent of the fish, the scent of the sea. My bare feet stand upon small rocks and cool water washes over my skin.
My minute concludes and with it the second round. More stimuli await. Smell of mud. Deep red. Whirring of windmills. Olive. Bark of a palm. The twenty active rounds pass quickly.
An intermission precedes the passive portion. As usual, I remain in my sensory apparatus until the contest has finished.
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