#theft of letters

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Not Right Address." Ottawa Citizen. October 17, 1913. Page 6. ---- In reporting the trial of Albert Gosselin, the letter carrier who was sentenced last Wednesday to four years in Kingston penitentiary for stealing a registered letter, The Citizen gave Gosselin's address as 30 Water street. the prisoner himself gave his address as such, and it is thus inscribed in the sergeant's record at police headquarters. The fact is that Gosselin did not live at 30 Water street; this house is occupied by the family of Mr. Joseph Seguin, who has no connection whatever with the condemned man. Gosselin's correct address was 30 Murray street.

[morggo]

Normal day as an artist on the internet.

Obviously, none of these are official. I get $0 from these. Chances are if you order them they won't be delivered to you, and the art won't even be acceptable quality.

Many artists are queer, disabled, and mentally ill, and theft like these can prohibit a vital source of living income.

You can get the official art on a tee, and other pride designs, here: https://mxmorgan.threadless.com/collections/pride

[veggiecorner]

Food for thought but what if the house in Hateno was just Zeldas at first? Link wanted to give Zelda a place to stay where she can rest without being reminded of her duty every 5 seconds (which was why staying in Kakariko didn't work) and he knew he's not the type to sit around and rest. He does want to stay by Zelda's side however, but also felt awkward about living with her. So he does this thing where he just checks in with her every few weeks/months but travels around doing tasks for the people. Whenever Zelda wants to travel he's immediately by her side, but once she's back in Hateno he's just "...okay see you later......" and leaves. Zelda wants to tell him to stay a bit longer, but is too uncertain to break that boundary between them. Also she doesn't really want him to feel like he has to stay by her side. She wants him to have his freedom.

But suddenly him being gone for 2 months becomes 6 weeks...then it becomes 1 month...then 2 weeks....then a week...and one day he walks up to Zelda and just says "...can I stay over for the night?"

And so the house in Hateno starts to feel a little less lonely from then on.

[netheresegale]

Gale moving some furniture around his house wizard tower and finds the massive stash of mail Tara collected from all the carrier pigeons she ate around Waterdeep.

[kuunibal]

As an alternative to breaking into your house to gain access to your precious belongings, how about your car? When you're out shopping on Sunday and leave your car in a rundown parking garage for hours, someone could easily get in, you know. The place is so old that the security cameras are mainly for show.

Don't worry, I won't damage your only vehicle- you won't even notice I was there. It smells a bit like you, my love, although I far prefer your scent from the source. I'll steal your fingerprints from the steering wheel with tape and collect your loose hairs and take the crumpled receipts from the floor with your past purchases and the last four digits of your credit card written on it (I already know the other 12, of course). I'll take photos of what you put in your glove compartment and check if you left anything tucked into the visor or the seat pockets. And I'll sit in the driver's seat, where you have sat for so many hours. I can just imagine your warmth still lingering there in the fabric against me. Oh darling, it's enough to get me riled up. But you'll be back soon, and I must not leave any traces. One day, maybe. For now, I will leave with the new additions to my collection and watch you return from afar, sweetheart.

[frosted-skies]

trikey —

deliver to: heaven

TW: Dr*gs, overdose and s*icidal ideation

i would wait for you a thousand years, but would my life last long enough?

trevor philips x michael de santa

a series of nine letters, corresponding to the nine years since michael townley’s death during a failed heist in ludendorff, north yankton, written by trevor philips.

the nine letters are kept safely in individual envelopes, stacked chronologically and locked in a wooden box under his bed.

engraved in the wood was:

deliver to: heaven.

—

playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Yv3sN3tq0kfgZyI83k5P2?si=JKbagLZiS0KzG9A9vOgbjA&pi=a-ATFl3aYgQmuF

2004.

Michael.

I can't believe you’re not with me anymore. I can’t believe you are gone, I can’t believe you are dead. I couldn't leave your tombstone, even after everyone else had left, including your wife and children.

I stayed there for god knows how long. I cried in the cold unforgiving North Yankton winter, kneeling next to your grave. I held onto your tombstone. That smooth concrete with your name engraved.

Michael Townley, 1965-2004.

I wanted to dig out your body, I wanted to look at your face one last time. I cried, screamed, begged for all of this to be a dream. I prayed to a God I didn't even know existed, I yelled into the empty grey skies. I yelled your name. hoping that somehow and somewhere, you’d come back.

Why did it have to end like this? I should have taken that bullet instead of you, I should have died and not you. Why was it you? Why did it have to be you? Why? I don’t know how to live without you, Mikey. You were my everything. And now…you’re gone.

Maybe you’re happier on the other side wherever you end up. I don’t fucking know. But I can’t think of a way to live a life without you. I’d crumble without you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I see you in everything and everywhere. I can’t get you outta my mind. I have a shirt of yours. And a jacket. Those are my only two things that will remind me of you. And I’ll treasure it with my whole life. I promise.

I’m missing you so much, Townley. And I’ll keep missing you forever. I’ll always be waiting for you on the other side. No matter how long it takes. I’m waiting for you. I promise.

T.

2005.

Michael.

It’s been a year since you left me. A fucking year. 12 months, 48 weeks, 365 days, 8760 hours and 525,600 minutes.

All that time. I spent it alone. I moved to another part of the US. I decided to move to San Andreas. Blaine County. Sandy Shores. In a trailer.

I did drugs. All that you could think of. Just so I can fill the void and the never ending pain that your death caused. I still can’t believe that you’re actually gone. Sometimes I saw see you in my dreams. Sometimes I see your face in other people’s. God, I miss you so much I think I’m going a bit crazy.

But I don’t think you would like to see me like this, do you? I don’t know. But I just needed something to quell me from the emptiness that you left me. I still have that shirt and jacket of yours. I take care of it well, so your scent doesn’t ever go away. I kept all the pictures we took. I look at them when I miss you the most. And then I cry my eyes out. And then I smoke meth. And repeat.

One year since you left me and I’m struggling. I don’t know what will happen to me soon. But I’ll wait for you. I promise, I will never forget you and I’ll wait.

I miss you and I love you. Forever. Until I die.

T.

2006.

Michael.

Two years. Two fucking years. Two years have passed since you died.

I don’t know if I’m surviving. Barely.

Writing to Brad. He’s in prison. Even though I hate his guts kinda, I still write. I’m not heartless am I?

I went to visit you up in North Yankton. Still cold as always. I think the priest saw me. I don’t know. Don’t care. I sat there for probably three hours. Talking to you. Talking to a fucking stone. I don’t know if you heard me. I guess you did.

I miss you so much Mikey. I really do. Why did you have to leave me so soon?

I have no energy to write more. I’m gonna go smoke meth probably.

I miss you. I love you.

T.

2007.

Michael.

Three fucking years.

Three.

The more days I live, the more I wonder if I should still stay. My life has no purpose.

My tolerance grew. The usual amount I smoked isn’t cutting it anymore.

I sometimes smoke with a picture of you next to me. You’re my only friend. I think.

I tried huffing gas. Interesting experience. Ended up with a pounding headache and puking my guts out at the abandoned motel. Who cares.

I don’t think I should stay alive anymore, Mikey.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m numb. I feel invisible. Miserable. Horrible.

I should just…die. I have no purpose to live anymore. Especially without you here with me. I’m tired of crying, breathing, and living. I might just die by an overdose. I should.

I’m broken, Mikey. Maybe I’ll see you. You’re waiting for me, right?

T.

2008.

Michael.

Four years. Sorry I wrote later than usual.

I was high as fuck. Took a mix of meth and heroin. Crazy. I probably killed a guy or two. I don’t know.

Almost died. Wasn’t planning to at that moment.

I heard your voice when I was tripping. Were you visiting me Mikey? I missed you.

I dont know if it was the drugs or my imagination. But I swear I saw you.

Planning to overdose next year, on the fifth year. Probably gonna mix a fuckton of drugs. It’ll be effective. I hope so. I just wanna meet you again.

You’re waiting right? Wait for me Mikey.

I’m coming.

T.

2009.

Michael.

Well…I tried.

I overdosed. I drank, I smoked. Somehow. But somehow, I’m still alive. Fuck.

Damn it. Fuck. Wait for me Mikey.

Please. I wanna see you again.

Hold you. Hug you. Talk to you.

Wait for me. Please.

I’ll come to you, Mikey. I promise.

T.

2010.

Michael.

Six years have passed.

I still wished I was the one who got shot. Not you. God. I miss you everyday. It hurts. Even the drugs aren’t cutting it anymore.

I miss you so much. I don’t know how to describe it. This grief seems to go on forever.

Should I just…keep living and accept the fact that you’re gone?

Tried to die twice to meet you but it seems like my life has other plans. Maybe one day I’ll accept the fact that you’re gone. But that doesn’t change the fact that I miss you so much. Remember that.

T.

2011.

Michael.

Coming to terms with the fact that you’re dead is weird. I’m still doing drugs though.

I think I found a friend. His name is Ron or whatever. He's a bit of a weirdo and his wife's an ass.

He's kinda like a little apprentice to me. I started a little drug stint to make money. Forgot to tell you that.

Even though I'm slowly accepting reality…that you're gone…

I will never forget you.

Take my word for that.

T.

2012.

Michael.

Sorry for not writing. Ron got a divorce from his ass wife. He lives in the trailer next to mine. I got another kid. Wade. Very gullible young kid.

I've been thinking of you a lot.

I've fully accepted that you're dead. After eight damn years. Almost a decade of me crying at night because I missed you.

Accepting that you're dead feels weird. Really weird. It's kinda like I've made peace with it. I no longer feel the weight of my grief. Nor have I felt that soul-crushing, rose-thorns-on-my-throat feeling of deathly missing you. Even after all that.

Remember that in another universe I still love you with all my heart.

T.

2013.

Michael.

Happy New Year. Well…I'm a month late. You don't care, do you?

I hope you're okay wherever you are. It's almost ten years since you're gone.

Isn't it weird that everyone grieves differently? I'm here always having you in my thoughts. Maybe your wife moved on quick and married someone else!

Finally accepting your death is calming. I'm not a miserable mess anymore. I have those two idiots and my business to occupy my time.

You're always in my thoughts. I miss you lots, Mikey. I love you lots, too.

T.

[stephensmithuk]

Larceny Act 1861

The relevant legislation covering theft in England at the time of the stories.

Transportation to Australia had ended in 1868; although the British in India were transporting prisoners, particularly Indian independence activists, to the Andaman Islands until 1937.

Whipping as a form of punishment was abolished as a judicial punishment in 1948 and in prisons in 1967. Hard labour, aka penal servitude, went in 1948 as well.

The death penalty for most forms of theft went in 1832 and had gone entirely by 1861. It was still in use for theft, treason, espionage, piracy with violence and arson in royal dockyards. In the first two cases, the sentence was mandatory and unless the monarch - or more accurately, the Home Secretary using royal prerogative powers - commuted the sentence.

[thejadewolf369]

[ld-fc]

lamar wrote to, visited, and called franklin so much while he was in prison that franklins cellie 1000% thought they were a couple

[nando161mando]

Torontonians, please join me in signing this No Homeless Evictions letter to Toronto Mayor Olivia Chow: #Toronto #TOpoli

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"FOR ROBBING MAILS," Ottawa Citizen. October 15, 1913. Page 1. ---- Letter Carrier Gets Four Years in Penitentiary. ---- Albert Gosselin, 30 Water street, letter carrier, was sentenced to four years at hard labor in the Kingston penitentiary by Magistrate O'Keefe in police court this morning, on a charge of robbing the mails. The information was laid by Post Office Inspector T. Coolican, who said that he had suspected Gosselin for some time. On the 4th October, the accused had appropriated a registered letter and its contents, $20, fraudulently signing the receipt book. He took a trip to Rigaud with the proceeds. Mr. Napoleon Champagne entered a plea of guilty on behalf of the prisoner, elected to be tried by the magistrate, and asked for clemency. Inspector Coolican was not adverse to a lenient view of the prisoner's offence, because Gosselin's family connections are highly respectable, and the boy's plight is a heavy blow to his mother. The maximum penalty for an offence of this kind is imprisonment for life: the minimum being a term of three years. The prisoner is 21 years of age, and single. About twenty postmen were present in uniform for the hearing.

[Gosselin was convict #F-666 at Kingston Penitentiary, and worked mostly in industrial shops. He was reported once for misconduct in February 1915, and lost 3 days remission. He was paroled at the end of 1915.]

[laurenfoxmakesthings]

Of course, only in Adelaide.

[oh-dear-so-queer]

"(...) Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from Acton's – what was it? – a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and ends!"

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[sharkcatshark]

whoever designed the process of changing your name in mygov needs to be fucking shot and publicly humiliated

[badnewswhatsleft]

actually these mv commentaries are all SO fun i might just upload them one by one to tumblr. stay tuned

[how-many-letters]

Percnthagfolwmkisuyd 20- original post

Welidont 8- reblog 1

Sory 4- reblog 2

Percnthagfolwmkisuyd 20- total

👩 1percentcharge Follow

Making fake posts is so fun it’s like I’m playing with dolls

🌅 thehappysmiler Follow

I agree with this