Check out this video where DS Palmer explains how he was inspired to use pirates to speak to children.

A reading of ‘A Pirate Life for Percy’, the first in DS Palmer’s children’s series “Pirate Tales”.

We’d love to hear what you think of it, please sound off in the comments!

I went to a very average elementary school in a middle-class suburb of Phoenix. This was a nice neighborhood. A great place to be a kid. I would play football in the streets with my brothers and our friends. We would roam the area for hours on our bikes, unafraid. But what I recall from school more than anything are the vicious attacks that boy would occasionally launch against boy. And it was always the boys. I remember the janitor hosing pools of blood littered with hair from fighting boys. I remember the bite marks on my friend’s shoulder from an attack he received walking home with a friend. I remember words of disagreement turning to violence so fast that even the attackers seemed surprised, the determined looks of bestial aggression on faces after a fight. I remember how amusing this seemed to the spectators at the time and how little attention our principal paid to all of it. All of this is still real.

I didn’t have to exaggerate the violence in this book starring children beyond anything I’d already seen on my playground or on the streets of my white-collar neighborhood. Much of this is almost a memoir of what I saw as a young boy at an ordinary elementary school. Perhaps my experience was anomalous. But I doubt it. 

Now that we’re adults, so many of us think that bullying is something relegated to the sub-world of children. Adults aren’t bullied, are they? I think so. But surely adults don’t come after their peers with such a terrible will to make them prey? Sure they do. That’s why I think the way these children attack each other in this book isn’t relevant, even if it is accurate to what I saw as a boy. This isn’t a book about children at all.

Matt Palmer

Notetakers, Part 2

In his documentary ‘The Cartel’, Bob Bowdon said that “overhead” is the “kind of spending that seldom faces any scrutiny locally when the money is coming from the state”.  The following is based on the philosophy espoused in ‘The Cartel’ and on characters from ‘St Bart’s High, Or How I Had a Love for the Classes Beat into Me’, a novel by DS Palmer.

“All right,” Spurlock coaxed with both hands raised to his forehead’s level, “Let’s all try and settle.  Settle down, please…  BRITTANY!” he yelped as a girl stood from her chair and raised a closed fist at the boy behind her, “Sit…down…please…”

As the rest of the class realized someone had made the instructor genuinely angry they gradually settled into their seats.  Brittany sheepishly followed suit, though her shoulders twitched the irritation she felt toward her neighbor for landing her in the scolding spotlight.

“Thank you,” Spurlock said as he clasped his hands near his waist, “We have a lot to do in the next couple of days because, remember, you have your first exam on Friday,” the class groaned in disapproval, “I know, I know, lousy schools trying to see if you’ve learned!  What are we here for anyway?” the teacher tried to joke.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “Madness in March”. 

“So does that mean you’re gonna give us a study guide today?”

“A study guide?” Spurlock asked with an arched eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“Uh, you know, something to study…,” the reply came with looks to each side in search of laughter.  The delivery was not disappointed.

“Yeah, you mean study guides in addition to the notes that I have so generously been printing out for you guys?”

“What? These!?” a different student in the back hollered, “These don’t even have nothin’!  They don’t have no notes!  There’s like, 10 words in each picture!  It’s the same stuff you’re always puttin’ on the screen!”

“I…I know,” Spurlock said through genuine surprise, “They’re exactly what I told you they would be.  I said when I first started giving them to you that they would not be sufficient notes by themselves and that you would still need to write down anything that you think would best define the concept that we were discussing.  Remember that?” Spurlock asked in more of a hypothetical tone, “’Cuz I know I said it.  Everyday…that we’ve…ever…taken…notes…”

His class was not amused.  They all looked up at him as if they were being cheated and that their teacher had not fulfilled his end of their learning contract.  A couple in each corner started shaking their heads and whispering to one another.  Still others angrily swiped their printed notes off to a side of their desk.  The less challenging students merely looked down at their handouts as if they could wish information onto the pages.

“Well,” a third defiant student began, “I can’t get nothin’ from these notes.  I can’t study from them!  Nobody could!”

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “Madness in March”. 

“OK, this is a conversation we should have had last week when I started printing them out,” Spurlock countered, “Better yet, this is a conversation we should have had a month and a half ago when I started lecturing.  The expectations have been laid out to you repeatedly.  If you don’t understand, it’s your responsibility to get the proper instructions.”

“Nuh-uh,” the first outraged young man countered, “I thought it’s the teachers’ jobs to make sure all their students know how to do everything!”

The class murmured its approval.

“All right, fine, but what if this was a job,” Mr. Spurlock suggested, “And what if I was your boss and I told you to do something and you didn’t let me know that you didn’t get it.  And then that thing was done incorrectly.  And let’s say this happened, oh, I don’t know, everyday.  What’s going to happen?  Are you going to keep that job?  Or should I go hire somebody who can either listen or clarify?”

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “Madness in March”. 

“Oh!  So now you’re sayin’ that none of can get no job!  Huh?”

“No, I’m saying that it sounds like none of you are going to do well on the test.”

A series of cries about how that would be patently unfair rose out of a third of the class.  Another third warned Spurlock about how bad it would make him look if his entire class failed the test.  The final third pled with him to just please provide a study guide and then they would do fine.

“Tell you what,” Spurlock offered after they had quieted themselves, “If you don’t feel that your notes are adequate, come by tomorrow during homeroom and I will answer any question you may have short of, ‘This is the answer to number one…’”

“Any question?” a young lady asked.

“Any…question,” Spurlock confirmed.  The class nodded its head in agreement that such an arrangement was fair if nothing else.

The following day Spurlock had no additions to his homeroom.

To be continued…

Author’s note: As previously described, the concept of printing out instructional crutches is not only fiscally wasteful, it’s furthermore conditioning a generation of students that even the most simple responsibilities, such as writing down important information and asking clarifying questions, to expect such basics to be provided to them.  And while that is being provided in the name of ‘learning’, other ‘skills’ go by the wayside.  Skills like, you know, writing information down that stares them in the face…

Tell me I’m wrong!  Chime in below!

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@thelibertyweekly.com

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “Madness in March”.

Why make them write what others can pay to copy?... ruraldoctoring.com

Notetakers, Part 1

In his documentary ‘The Cartel’, Bob Bowdon said that “overhead” is the “kind of spending that seldom faces any scrutiny locally when the money is coming from the state”.  The following is based on the philosophy espoused in ‘The Cartel’ and on characters from ‘St Bart’s High, Or How I Had a Love for the Classes Beat into Me’, a novel by DS Palmer.

“Eh!  Come on, man, you’re going to fast!” a student interrupted to bark at Charlie Spurlock as he poured his soul into a lecture about Pearl Harbor.

“Yeah, man!  How do you expect us to learn nothin’ when we can’t write nothin’ down ‘cuz you’re all talkin’ so fast!” another jumped in.

“Um,” Spurlock muttered while rubbing his forehead, “Guys, this is, like, the most basic skill anyone is going to ask of you in school.  The skill to, you know, write what someone else is saying.  Good grief, nobody’s even asking you to learn, just copy my words.”

“Yeah, well, all those other teachers give us handouts!” came a call from the back with unnecessary gusto, “Why don’t you do none of that!”

“Look, I don’t think I need to justify basic classroom decisions to anyone under the age of…I don’t know…17…”

“I’m 19,” the same pseudo-outraged young man glowered.

“Good for you,” Spurlock continued with as much surprise as smirk written across his reddening face, “Regardless, before we discuss the volume of paper that needs to be sacrificed to try and minimize all of your…contributions, perhaps we should first see what note-taking is like after you all put your phones away.  Hmmmm, in the back…,” he said while staring down his most vocal antagonist.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”. 

The following morning Spurlock’s intercom buzzed as he was sitting down at his desk.  “Mr. Spurlock?” it asked.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, Principal Dotter would like to speak with you before your class starts.”

“All right, I’m on my way,” he said while pushing away from his desk.  His walk through St. Bart’s High School halls was quieter than usual as many of the students had not yet arrived and the instructors were locked in their rooms bracing for the coming day.  Phones rang intermittently through the office as he turned the corner and found Dotter’s open door waiting for him as the principal shuffled papers at his desk.

“You wanted to see me?” Spurlock asked from the doorway.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yes.  Please sit down,” Dotter said while motioning to the lone chair in the office that did not have binders stacked atop it.

“Well,” the principal began, “We just got a complaint.  One of your students said that you refused to provide him with handouts en lieu of notes?”

“What?” Spurlock asked in full surprise.

“Yeah, I guess you told him that you wouldn’t make copies of the PowerPoint slides and told him to put away his phone and take notes.  You understand that…”

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”. 

“That’s entirely accurate,” Spurlock interrupted, “Some of the students wondered yesterday why I don’t make copies and claimed that many other teachers do it, but I told the whole class that it shouldn’t be hard to write down what I’m saying and that maybe if they spent less time on their phones then taking the notes would be easier.”

“They shouldn’t be on their phones,” Dotter said while looking at Spurlock over his glasses, “And why aren’t you making them copies?”

“Because it’s a waste.  Because I have five classes with at least 27 kids in them.  If I’m making copies for every discussion every day, plus the other copies for the documents and things that we talk about, we’re talking about hundreds of copies a week.  Thousands a month!  For just my class!  Shouldn’t the students cut that cost by being, you know…students?”

“Well, in a perfect world, yes.  But times have changed, Charlie, and you can’t just expect the students to be able to write as fast as you talk.  And the guy that you singled out about the phone, he’s resource.  You can’t deny him notes.  Now the Special Ed department is piping hot, and his mother has called them and me.  You have to give them notes.”

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”. 

“All right,” Spurlock laughed, “If you’re telling me to do it, I’ll do it…”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Dotter smiled.

“OK, but how many teachers are we not going to hire back this year?”

“What do you mean?” Dotter asked.

“I mean last spring we all heard that nobody’s going to lose their jobs because of attrition and that we shouldn’t have to worry about the budget if we want to come back.  Meanwhile there’s more kids than seats in the English classes and most of the Math Department is rumored to have sold their prep hours and there are all sorts of Penthouse-worthy stories coming back from every sports trip since the boys and girls teams started using the same bus.  And despite all of that, you’re telling me to increase my copy budget by about, what, $7.50 or $10 a week?”

“Well, it’s not all quite that simple, and yes, that’s what I’m asking of you.  Now, I have a parent coming in here, so, if you’ll please…”
The next day Spurlock dutifully handed out the PowerPoint slides and introduced his activity with a lecture.  And as he spoke, he recognized a veritable sea of tranquility before him, so still were his students’ pens and pencils.

To be continued…

Author’s note: The above is just one example of the gross waste that schools suggest as methods to make the learning process more simple.  They funny thing is, what could be more simple than traditional note-taking?  And what could be more cost-effective than students bringing a traditional notebook to do it?

Chime in! What other schoolhouse wastes make you crazy?

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

Everyman in a mid-size wonders if the idiot in a monster truck is only playing chicken... hoax-slayer.com

It wasn’t late.  Not for grown-ups.  But he had his kids in the car, and on their clocks the day was closing to an end.  Nerves were fraying and obnoxiousness was running high as they made their way home.  He needed his boys to find their way into their beds.

A light before the freeway overpass had just turned green and before them a giant truck slowly crossed the bridge.  As they passed the open-air shopping mall the truck continued to roll about ten miles-an-hour under the speed limit.  “Come on…,” he thought while continuously glancing to his left in search for an avenue to pass the behemoth.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

Daylight struck when one of his neighbors moved into the turn lane.  With a passing opportunity within his grasp he hit the gas as his oldest belted out a high note in a made-up tune.  “And not a moment too soon,” he smugly fancied while thinking that his traffic problems would soon literally be in the rearview.

Fate had other ideas.  Just as soon as he had achieved passing speed around the road-hogging monster truck, the last light out of town went from yellow to red.  Unwilling to risk running the stop sign he stood on the brake and waited his turn.  The light allowed the continuation and he accelerated to 60 in the 45 to try and hustle past the traffic before the lanes went from two to one.  Behind him lurked the monster truck.

“This clown’s gonna try and pass me,” he thought.  The right lane indicated a turn was about to be forced and that mergers should occur.  And just then the throaty acceleration of a monster truck could be heard from behind.

“All right, I’m already going 60,” he thought, “Do I push 80 to keep an a-hole where he belongs?”  The decided answer was no, and the monster truck hurried in front and slammed on the brakes, slowing to less than 50 mph.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

“Hmpf,” he said, “Apparently this tough guy didn’t like my passing him, and now he’s gonna show me which way is up,” he muttered to his wife.  She looked on anxiously, not sure of how to respond.

The kids continued to clamor as their noise went from joyous to sleepy delirium.  With both hands on the wheel he tailgated with a purpose.  “All right, tough guy, you wanted me behind you, so that’s what you’re going to get.”  And for four or five miles he maintained almost no distance between his Altima and the a-hole’s monster truck.

Gradually the monster truck was forced to slow.  Its turn signal indicated an intention to turn right.  It seemed to do so, but from the rearview mirror he noticed something.  The monster truck flipped a u-turn and drove in the other direction.

“Huh,” he said, “That a-hole just flipped around.  That’s kind of a long way to go to teach a stranger a lesson that you’re the boss, right?” he asked rhetorically.

“So that’s what’s important to you,” he silently mused, “Good luck when everyone starts eating each other.”

Every man (and woman) has been down this road.  Hit the comments to vent your frustrations…  We want to hear from you!

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

Everyman wants to find his Alice...and have his Alice find him... redclay.chatblogs.com

I’m old enough to remember when Last of the Mohicans was chic.  I show it to my classes anymore and I can cut the trepidation with a knife after the students find out that the movie was made in…1992…!!

Apparently that’s old now.  All of you who are likewise apparently old now, I would like to take you back to the movie’s end.  Shortly after a ruling that was going to banish the fair Alice to live with the butchering Magua there’s a subtle moment of two-way tenderness that should melt even the most oblivious of souls.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

Watching from afar, one of the heroes, Uncas, recognized Alice’s peril and fate.  While standing behind his father, Chingachgook, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, left it for a moment as if in a final embrace, and then turned to pursue his destiny.  It would end one of two ways:  heroically with his love-interest, or futilely with his demise.  As Magua’s war-party marched off with the harried and beautiful aristocrat, an immediate concern for the would-be hero should fill every viewers’ breast.

Uncas went on the assault.  His foe was not Magua alone, and one would love to think that had he not been softened by having to slay his way to Alice’s holder the odds would have been more in his favor.  Alas, such was his cross.  And though well short of his aim as Magua robbed him of his last breath Uncas provided Alice with one final comforting truth:  she was loved.

As this Valentine’s Day draws to a close, it is my hope that one and all may experience such affection.  Heaven knows it is coveted by all and deserved by nearly as many.  And to all who are yet to bask in such soul-inspiring warmth, read this and know that some stranger from afar is pulling for your discovery of your Uncas.  That you’ll find someone who just might run into savagery’s waiting blades intent upon your rescue.  Metaphorically, of course.

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

This is what it takes to beat unemployment... wikipedia.org

It used to be that Mickey Rourke’s character in “The Wrestler” was inspirational for the sort of fool who did what his high school guidance counselor advised.  That is he followed his dream.  The issue is everyone entering the job market ought to pay close heed to the effort one man made to continue to live his dream…and work.

Rourke plays Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, a world champion professional wrestler from the 1980s.  The Ram drives a beat up van, lives in a single-wide trailer when he can make rent and has a hard time with a regular work schedule because of his continued need/want to wrestle on the weekends.  He is ridiculed by those on the Monday-Friday scene for continuing to pursue his once realized dream of performing on his profession’s brightest stage.  Alternatively, on the weekend he is revered by those who aspire to attain the status that he once had and reputation that he continues to enjoy.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

The Ram isn’t an accessible character for many in the traditional work-a-day world.  In the wake of his pursued dream he has a terrorized relationship with an estranged daughter.  He has little of monetary value to show for his lifetime of work and sacrifice.  Indeed, most sensible professionals would expect anyone who has put forth that kind of dedication to a career would expect to see long-term and sustainable gains or a new career path eventually being chosen.

But to those who have undergone such sacrifices to similarly realize dreams, Rourke’s portrayal not only makes perfect sense, but also views like a biography.  Watching The Ram march through tunnels backstage en route to a growing din and awaiting match you can easily imagine the actor enjoying a similar thrill before the curtain rises over his weekend battlefield.

Similarly, when Randy Robinson politely asks for extended hours at work so long as they don’t interfere with his weekend wrestling, you can easily imagine the same thespian similarly struggling to find more hours to wait tables so long as they don’t keep him from the stage.

The Ram’s depiction is that of the artist’s traditional career path.  He portrays what those who have striven to make a living selling their gifts have undertaken to ensure that they continue to eat and remain separated from the elements as they bide time enough for their talents to assume the breadwinning responsibilities.  He is shining as the book-writing school teacher, the record store song-writer, the day care model.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

But as employment figures continue to trickle in with waning momentum (most recently a fudged 8.3% of the population is officially unemployed), as more college students graduate indebted with student loans and the privilege of moving back in with their parents, as those same graduates find jobs out of school waiting tables or manning parking garages we are finding that it is those who aspire to work in their trained field who should find inspiration in Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson.

Rather than The Ram’s triumphant march to a waiting crowd, college graduates need to familiarize themselves with a similar walk Randy made to work.  This also spun through the bowels of professional structure.  Costumed with jeans and a hairnet The Ram wound his way to his professional destination, as anticipation grew and the sound of the floor groaned louder.  But this time he was spit up behind a deli counter with only obligation awaiting him.

This is the reality for today’s young job seekers.  There is now competition for everything up to and including teaching.  Suddenly it isn’t only the talented that require patience while hoping for luck while trying to morph ability into success.  But now patience and luck is a prerequisite for all success.

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

Every man knows what it's like when money should be in there... mailboxnet.com

The hardest thing about working for someone, for anyone, isn’t the orders or being forced to put up with the seemingly endless whims that bosses can constantly toss out at any of their employees.  It isn’t being forced to be at any one place at any one time, and all the while knowing full well that if you don’t show up that you’re livelihood is kaput.  It isn’t the mind-numbing monotony and the daily experiment seemingly being undertaken by an invisible force intent upon proving the actuality of some sort of mental carpel tunnel.

All of that is hard, but it’s not the hardest.  Working for someone is at its most difficult, nigh impossible even, when the single reason that all of us show up for work every day, at our designated time and embrace the various petty horrors…doesn’t show up.  Work becomes most unbearable when the bills arrive, but the money doesn’t.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

We’ve all been there.  Hungrily walking toward the mailbox, bills on the counter back at the house, check register hidden away tightly with the hopes that God Himself might never catch a glimpse of our monetary shame, and the heart-pounding hope that some of those concerns are soon to be allayed when the promised exchange of money for labor is delivered.  And again the next day…it’s not.  And then…it’s not…  And then…W…T…F…!…

Amidst this abbreviated and vulgar state he walked to the mailbox.  “One day late could be the mail,” he growled to himself, “Two days could be some kind of mistake.  Three days and something’s gotta be wrong.  But four days is…is…,” the diatribe slowed as he pushed the key into the lock.  His heart raced as his mouth dried and his hands each felt icy.

With a quick flick of the wrist he unlocked and flung the door open.  Mail was inside.  His heart beat faster as he reached in and pulled a mighty wad of deliverables outside into the sunlight.  Envelopes too thick to be paychecks were hardly noticed as the one momentary salvation was searched after.

“Come on!” he whispered in front of the open receptacle as despondence grew.  The pile was growing short and he was fast approaching the grocery store ads and further desperation.  “It’s not here…again!” he laughed as his mind raced toward the email that he would have to send while vainly trying to maintain his composure.

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

Just as he started wondering if ‘scumbag’ is one word or two, his index finger struck a corner that was as narrow as it was sharp.  His thumb raced to it and pushed it above the rest of the mail.  A small grin began to curl at either side of his mouth as he shut the mailbox and shoved the other material under his arm and began the short walk home while tearing open his sustenance.  The numbers looked up reassuringly, and he returned the gaze with gratitude.  He walked inside and found his six-year-old son nearly at the door after walking downstairs.

“What’s for dinner, daddy?” he asked with an apprehensive air.

“Ah, I don’t know,” he said while plotting a surprise, “Maybe a Happy Meal…”

“A Happy MEAL!” his kid shouted in delight as he looked up at his smiling and nodding father.

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com

Click here for DS Palmer’s novel “St. Bart’s High, Or How I had a Love for the Classes Beat into me”.

In this prison an inmate was ridiculed, pushed around and psychologically tormented by his peers.  He feared that rape was on his horizon.

His background was different than others.  He was even poorer than most and therefore ignorant of some of the outside’s finer things.  He was also a little stupid and therefore easily made the butt of amusements throughout the population.

These jokes and pranks were gradually becoming more physical and suggestive in nature.  One time in the Chow Hall he saw some inmates whispering until one of them ‘accidentally’ dropped their fork near him under the table.

“Hey!” they called to him, “Get that for me!”

He hoped that a good deed would grant kinder graces and bent under the table to retrieve.  But he was stupid, remember, and he failed to observe another inmate coming in the opposite direction.  As he stooped to pick up the fork he felt a firm shove across his back that wedged him between the table and his chair.  He was stuck and his posterior was jutted upward into the air.  Their plan successful, those who he hoped to make his friends raced to apply spankings and other evocative humiliations.

Click her to begin reading DS Palmer’s novel ‘St. Bart’s High Or, How I Had a Love for the Classes Beat into Me’ for FREE

To end the disgrace he pursued a gang.  The gang was initially indifferent.  But he was desperate, and began offering nearly any possession to find safety within their numbers.  Gradually the gang grew to appreciate the windfall of cigarettes and other jail-time valuables that their newest potential recruit was providing for them.

So they let him.  He joined their gang and began to enjoy a life lived without fear of the masses.  He never flaunted his new sense of security, probably because he was too stupid to realize he could have.  But everyone who had used him as an outlet for their frustrations with their different inadequacies knew of their loss, and they resented him all the more.

One night, shortly after he had seemed to find security, the same gang that had seemingly made him safe took it all away.  Before the cells were locked down for the night they invited themselves into his quarters.  After making brief small-talk they rose up and beat him into pile of bloodied mess.  It was quick work, and after he was subdued they took turns beating him and trashing his cell.  They destroyed everything he owned.  When the violence was complete they urinated on him and the rubble that his life had become.

No one stopped anything.  The rest of the population swore he got what he deserved for trying to be something he was not.  He was no gang-banger.  He was stupid, and he should have accepted his lot by absorbing their ridicule with good humor.  So they listened to the crime with satisfaction.

His wounds required weeks to heal.  The warden allowed an even longer duration in the hospital with the hopes that extended segregation from his hell might help him recover mentally.  It did not, but at least he was never raped.

This might provide one and all with enough inspiration to never commit a crime and therefore always steer clear of such circumstances.  Except, I never used to work in a prison.  I used to work in a school.

I worked at a school where everyday kids lived in fear of ridicule, torment and being mind-raped.  And so they join into masses with the hope that they will find some safety from the other jackal-packs.  Often it works.  But with the student…I mean inmate…I mean student…described above, it only worked for a moment before something even worse befell him.

And everyday similar kids…I mean inmates…I mean kids…are forced into that situation without any hope of good behavior preventing their torment.

I used to work in a school.

Click her to begin reading DS Palmer’s novel ‘St. Bart’s High Or, How I Had a Love for the Classes Beat into Me’ for FREE

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com