The Whooping Hills

This book is not a single story. It is a field of many lives speaking at once. Some arrive from the hills — ancient breath-deep thunder-born — carrying memory in sound. Others rise from fear of assimilation from the boardrooms the battlefields of the mind or from screens lit by all the ways we seek validation and lose ourselves trying. You will hear the oratory of the uncouth — the roar of the unpolished who refuse to bow. You will stand at the termite-ridden court where justice decays and at the mirror where identity unravels day after day until even memory becomes anonymous.