Penultimatology

Chapter One of Helena, a novel in progress. This work of fiction examines Christian nationalism, political power, and the corruption of religious language.

The morning sun was subdued, as if unwilling to illuminate the gray structures lining each street. Helena stepped outside, her wristband vibrating softly against her skin to signal that her daily schedule had been updated.

CITIZEN 038-751-942-608: CONFIRM ATTENDANCE BY 08:15. LATE ARRIVAL NOT PERMITTED.

She confirmed quickly, pressing her thumb firmly against the small screen embedded in the band.

Around her, citizens moved steadily and quietly along their assigned paths, eyes lowered to the lines projected by their augmented-reality glasses. The lines guided their every step. Silence had become the norm. Conversation was sparse and cautious, confined mostly to approved forums during scheduled hours.

Helena had long since stopped asking questions or resisting the routines. Compliance had become survival.

Yet something stirred faintly inside her that morning—an old memory, perhaps, or merely a fleeting moment of awareness. A child walking several paces ahead briefly looked away from his projected path. He tilted his face toward the sky and smiled at a bird perched defiantly atop a streetlamp.

The child’s mother pulled him forward.

Helena’s wristband tightened around her arm, a subtle correction for her own deviation in pace. She quickened her step, her heart fluttering with an anxiety that was all too familiar.

The building ahead loomed over the street, its uniform windows staring like unblinking eyes. As Helena passed through the broad gates, a scanner hummed softly and confirmed her attendance.

Her workstation awakened as she approached. The screen displayed the day’s tasks: routine, predictable, repetitive. She glanced around. Her colleagues sat at their stations with identical postures and nearly identical expressions of quiet resignation. An unspoken understanding passed among them. No words were necessary.

At precisely midday, a gentle tone announced their allotted break. Helena collected a rationed nutrient cube and water packet from the dispenser and joined the others at the sterile tables. Voices remained hushed. Conversations were minimal and superficial. No one ventured anything that might invite scrutiny.

For a moment, Helena thought again of the child and the bird.

She wondered about stories she had heard of freer days. She could no longer tell whether they were genuine memories or fantasies created by longing. She dismissed the thought quickly. Nostalgia was an unnecessary risk.

Compliance was safety.

Routine was comfort.

As evening fell, Helena retraced her assigned route home, guided by the ever-watchful glasses. The city’s muted palette deepened beneath the dimming sky. Inside her small apartment, the walls remained bare except for the mandatory announcements projected across them at prescribed intervals.

She prepared for sleep and waited for the final compliance report.

Her wristband pulsed once.

DAILY COMPLIANCE: ACCEPTABLE. NO CORRECTIVE ACTION REQUIRED.

Another day had passed without incident. Tomorrow would be the same.

The thought was comforting and devastating at once.

For an instant, the darkened wall returned her reflection: a slender woman, thirtyish, with brown hair cut just above her shoulders in one of the approved practical styles and hazel eyes that shifted between gray and green, always appearing more resolute than she felt. A narrow scar ran above her left eyebrow, the remnant of a childhood accident from a time when not every injury generated a government report.

Then the wall brightened again.

CHRISTIAN STATES OF AMERICA

MANDATORY CIVIC NOTICE

ANNUAL AFFIRMATION REVIEW

ACKNOWLEDGMENT REQUIRED BY 08:15

A block of text appeared beneath the notice. Helena recognized it immediately. Every citizen did.

She had read the Affirmation countless times, spoken portions of it in school, and watched officials recite it with their right hands resting upon the Bible. Yet that night, perhaps because of the child, the bird, or some part of herself she had not entirely extinguished, Helena did not dismiss the notice.

She began to read.

Chapter Two, “The Affirmation,” will be published Monday, August 17.