Sources Say by Bradley David

Telemetry. I woke up with a desire to use that word today but couldn’t figure out how. It’s nearing, oh, eleven o’clock now—PM, mind you—and I still haven’t got it right. At the diner this morning I asked the server for telemetry on my side of hash browns. Instead, he topped them with a slice of fresh tomato. His hearing was unwell. But I liked it anyway. From now on I will ask for a sliced tomato atop my hashbrowns, even some minced onion mixed in. After breakfast I went to the post office and asked for the telemetry on my parcel. The clerk circled the tracking number and a website on my receipt where I could follow its progress. That brightened me up for a moment, because there seemed to be an understanding between us. She then explained, once it arrives, I could measure the telemetry of the box myself—they don’t provide that level of detail online. In the early afternoon I took my coffee at an outdoor cafe along the promenade. What a gorgeous day to watch the swan boats, clobbering catfish with their paddlewheels. A disinterested livery attendant had been seen herding and dispensing the bevy of fiberglass birds corralled within a yellow rope floated with white buoys. I asked him in passing how he takes the telemetry of those birds so they don’t swim out too far and buzzcut the park’s collection of lotus flowers gifted by the Chinese embassy. He told me they don’t have to take their telemetry because they’re not real birds. Maybe it was the caffeine coming down, or just the general state of affairs, but by late afternoon I was experiencing an agitation of drowsiness and insomnia. I took to my bed and kicked the covers onto the floor like a toddler tangled in seaweed. The blinds were up and my view was the span between our hill and the next—the valley below starting to prickle with its usual five-o’-clock sepsis of traffic. Up west on the main artery the cars were really stacking up. I looked at my phone, our neighborhood’s community alerts app, and, sure enough, the police had shot a burglary suspect. An update from a source on the sidewalk said it was a non-life-threatening injury, traffic would ease up soon. Someone else chimed in saying, good thing, their car was blocked in the driveway and they were going to be late for yoga. Apparently, their blood was really boiling. I clicked open the lock on my patio door and walked the few steps to the edge of the hill where I could better see the commotion down there. What a beautiful evening it was turning out to be. Light breeze and still a few purple finches at the feeder. I took my phone in my right hand and whiffed it as far as I could. I was wondering the telemetry between here and the shooting. I thought I might count the seconds between my release and the thunder of its landing. Divide by seven, or a dog’s age. But I never heard it land. I think that must be some kind of safety feature. 

Bradley David’s poetry, fiction, essays, and genre-blending works appear in Terrain.org, JMWW, Identity Theory, Fatal Flaw, Unstamatic, Exacting Clam, and numerous other publications and anthologies. He is Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated. Bradley is also the blended-genre senior editor at JMWW Journal, and an assistant editor at Identity Theory. Selected work at bradley-david.com. Socials @bradley_david_w

8 March 2024