inmate address

Want To Write To An Inmate? A Few Things To Know

Writing to a prison inmate can be a very fulfilling pastime to have, whether you are interested in providing comfort or contacting a specific offender. But writing to someone behind bars always carries a certain amount of risk. Before you post your first letter, please make sure you have yourself covered:

- ALWAYS research the person you are writing to. Most prison penpal websites state the crime for which a person is imprisoned, but not specific details.

- ALWAYS read a prisoners profile thoroughly, and check details against any information you can find to see if its correct. Also look for whether a prisoner is seeking legal aid or just a friend.

- Never give away too many personal details about yourself until a strong rapport has been built, and be extremely careful about sending photographs. Many prisoners trade personal photos with other inmates, or the photos may be confiscated during a cell inspection.

- Respect the prisoners right to privacy, and dont publicly share the content of the letters without permission.

- Always be aware of manipulation tactics or attempts to get you to do something you are not comfortable with. If you feel disturbed or pressured by an inmate in any way, cease writing to them immediately.

- It might be wise to use an alias or your initials when first contacting an inmate. Using a different address is not always neccessary (or practical), but always be aware of handing out your address too freely.

- Be consistent with your letters. Try to show you care by replying as soon as you are able; most inmates look forward to getting letters, and you are more likely to recieve lots of responses if you take time to craft your letter.

I hope this helps anyone who is thinking of writing to an inmate :)


Things happened quickly after that, before you could blink your eyes you were on a flight to Rome and found yourself back at the Vatican. Looking around, you felt a different feeling swirl in your stomach than from the first time you had visited this place. When you thought about Namjoon, you felt a part of your body shutter. You didn’t want to write off this man, but he did use your trust against you. He hurt you in more ways than you could explain, but there was also a part of you that strived to understand him and help him.

You walked into the Basilica, which had a constant crowd of tourists and devout believers strewn about, but there was a serenity in being here. If there was any place that you would confront Namjoon, it would be in this place. Walking up to the Pieta, Jin stood next to you.

So you think he would be here? He whispered in your ear and you nodded. Jin looked at the statue than at you. You know, I was so scared about you. I actually worried so much about you while they held us at the house and you went to the hospital. You were so helpless and because of our sentences, we couldn’t do anything. Jin commented and you looked at him. Jin looked back at the statue. Art makes you think about things, even if you don’t want to, it makes you worry about people. He nodded at the statue. I felt like she did, I felt heartbroken when I tried to pick you up. He muttered and you nodded at him.

Wow, you really have come a long way. You said more to yourself, but Jin smiled at you.

You know, normal people would be more concerned about how they feel after an attack like that. He said and you nodded.

Yea, I know. But it’s nice to know that you’re becoming more empathetic. You replied and Jin nodded. Giving a glance around, he put his arm around your shoulders.

If there’s one thing I know about Namjoon, he would be scared to see you. So I think if we stick together like this, it will be better, that way he might approach us. He whispered into your ear and you nodded. Draping your arm around Jin’s waist, the two of you looked like a couple out of a magazine. You looked at Jin like a protector, and he really would do anything for you, but you were also on alert of anyone coming by to take the statue. Then without warning, a man approached, his hair was bleach blonde, his eyes averted those around him, and he tried to cover his face with a black mask. You looked up at Jin, who nodded. Walking up to him, you rested a hand on his shoulder.

Namjoon? You called out and every muscle in the man’s body went stiff. Slowly turning to you, you saw Namjoon’s fearful eyes. They were brimmed with tears and the bags under his eyes made you think he hadn’t slept in days. Namjoon, don’t do this. You said and Namjoon slumped.

You don’t understand. He pleaded and Jin stood on the other side of him.

But I do. He said confidently. You have someone to repay, they are scaring you into this and you feel as though it’s the only way out. Jin spouted off. It’s the same tactic I used so many times with my men before I got caught. But Namjoon, you’re smarter than this. Jin turned to Namjoon, looking him dead in the eye, Jin continued. You don’t need to do this anymore. Once you see that their tactics are just words, that they can’t hurt you, you have the upper hand. Namjoon looked at Jin then at you. You were looking at the statue and Namjoon felt his heart break. He could see a small scar on the side of your head and knew he was the cause. Breaking down, he began to cry.

I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m just done. Namjoon said in a flurry of sobs. You looked at him. Here was a man that was completely broken inside. Your heart ached as you watched him look over his shoulder, a signal of some kind.

Jin! You caught the elder’s attention and he nodded. Walking in the direction of the signal, you watched as the five other guys followed and police swarmed. Namjoon looked at you with confused eyes.

What’s happening? He asked and you gave him a reassuring smile.

You won’t be scared of them anymore. The men that had held Namjoon captive were being arrested, but then you looked down. Namjoon, we need to talk. You started but Namjoon began speaking quickly.

I didn’t want to do it! They told me I had to or they would do something worse to you! He grabbed at your hands, but you calmly pulled them away. Namjoon’s breathing was erratic and you shook your head.

We need to talk about this in a different place. Maybe once we’ve transported back to Seoul. You mumbled and Namjoon begged.

Can you please just look at me? He asked and you looked up. Namjoon saw a strong and stoic gaze staring at him, gone was the naïve and comforting fixation. He wanted to go back in time, but he knew he had broken a part of you. Y/N, I am so sorry. He said with conviction and sadness. You nodded knowingly. Slowly leading him away from the Pieta, you felt a new connection to the emotions in the statue.

Once you got back to Seoul, you made your way to the police station. Namjoon sat in the interrogation room with his wrists cuffed to the table. He looked straight forward and you nodded to the guards to let you in.

Inmate Kim Namjoon. You addressed him in a professional manner and he looked severely uncomfortable. I am Dr. Y/N, I will be working with you on your psychological rehabilitation. You are to report to house arrest this afternoon and we will begin our behavioral assessment tomorrow morning. You said and Namjoon looked at you quizzically.

Y/N, what is going on? He asked and you looked at him.

I’m your doctor. My program allowed for the release of six inmates with similar charges. I will be working closely with you until I deem you are fit for psychological assessment by the courts. You replied and Namjoon looked around.

Is this a joke? An act of mercy? He asked and you shook your head.

No, I’m helping you become a Renaissance man. You replied and then turned on your heels and left. It would take a long time, but you were slowly going to work with Namjoon to help both of you heal.


Stopping mid-stride, Sam turned his head slowly in the direction of the loud, gruff voice, annoyed expression darkening his handsome features. 


“You got a minute to spare for me, pretty?” 

The inmate who had addressed Sam was tall, about 6′2′’, with broad shoulders and a lean frame. He had short black hair that was tousled and wild, a strong jaw, and gorgeous gray eyes that looked like a stormy sea. All in all he was breathtaking, and Sam couldn’t help but think that such a beautiful sight looked so out of place in the harsh, dim lighting of the Arkansas prison. 

“Maybe just one.” 

“Hmm, I’m flattered, babydoll.” 

“What do you want?”

“Right down to business, I like that. Well, ya see, pretty, I really hate that loud-mouth asshole you call a brother, no offense. But since I ain’t lookin’ to add more time to my sentence by picking a fight with him, I was thinking maybe you could help me get under his skin a little?” 

Sam tilted his head to the side, left eyebrow arching in curiosity at the stranger proposal. 

“What did you have in mind?” 

“Well, it’s no secret that you like to make your big brother jealous and I was thinking that me kissing those sexy lips of yours in front of him would do just that.” 

“You serious?”

“Oh yeah, sugar. You game?” 

Smiling coyly, Sam nodded his agreement just about the time Dean strolled into the bathroom; the younger Winchester chuckling softly under his breath as his admirer grabbed him by the hair and kissed him deeply; the sound of Dean cursing loudly ringing in Sam’s ears as he slid his tongue inside the stranger’s warm, soft mouth. 

anonymous asked:

Do you know if Josh Phillips writes people often? And may I have his address please?

From what I understand, he used to write quite often but no longer does.  It’s always worth a shot.  Good luck!

Joshua Phillips J11775
Hardee Correctional Institution
6901 State Road 62
Bowling Green, FL 33834-4504

anonymous asked:

I'm just gonna throw a little bit of angst your way if that's ok with u. Think about Enjolras getting caught and arrested when a rally or protest goes wrong and all do the other Amis teaming up to gather money from each other to afford the bail but Enjolras won't allow them to "pay for his mistakes" so he just sits in a prison cell for weeks until his time is up despite everyone trying to help him

Plot twist follow up:

When Enjolras gets out, all of les Amis are there to welcome him back. And they see him doing those elaborate handshakes with other inmates, sharing hugs, exchanging addresses. Les Amis are just… on their ASSES because??? Enjolras managed to blend in??? 

“What the fuck happened in there?”

“These guys have stories to tell. So I listened to them.”

there is a reason that scales
are built for only one set of feet,
two stress-laced shoulders,
one beating heart.
because the number that flashes in red
is meant for one pair of eyes
that know how to accept the heaviness.
when I was ten years old I was called “fat”
by a girl I used to call my best friend
and that is the day I started standing in that spot
feeling like the devil going to confession for the first time.
pinching the roundness of my cheeks,
the baby fat meant for someone a decade younger.
touching with tense fists the ripples on my thighs,
not as subtle as the ones in the ocean,
and blinking back tears at the rolls in my stomach.
I made myself seasick.
that is the day I began regretting each bite,
each mouthful,
despite its life saving qualities.
the nourishment I desired did not come in the form of carbohydrates
but in the form of acceptance.
it’s very hard to grow up finding more love
in rushed phone calls
than in yourself.
it’s very hard to look at other girls out of the corners
of your shy eyes,
feeling ashamed that you’re staring when you know how much
you hate when the same occurs to you,
comparing heights and ages and body weights
to see who comes out with the gold medal versus the
“thanks for participating” ribbon.
my flat, temperamental, numbered friend has stayed the same
as my feet have grown.
and my waistline.
new pants each autumn, always being tailored because
“your height just doesn’t match your midsection.”
watching the marked up ribbon of measurement
as it wound its way around me like a snake,
tightening itself around me until I felt swallowed whole.
when my feet were full grown
and my pants were worn through with holes
I still found myself in the same place, with the same
burnt out feeling, with the same numbers.
I never knew what it felt like to be an inmate
until I began addressing myself in digits rather than letters,
detaching myself from the human characteristics I owned.
but I missed the letters, I missed the ten year old,
the one that could have two pieces of pizza without
being a guilty man on the stand
waiting for the judge to smack down thirty minutes of exercise
with much more emotional damage than physical bettering.
so I decided that I am the one in charge of my body.
I am the god of my mountains and my valleys and my
rivers and my plains.
I am a landscaper, and if I don’t like something,
I have the power to change it.
I can scribble out the maps whenever I please
and everyone has to answer to me when I do.
when the numbers began scaling backwards
my happiness felt like a balloon and I was so scared it would
sometimes it deflates, but I haven’t broken yet.
I will not break.
and the reason I’m happy isn’t because now boys will see me.
I am not under the impression that because I am
fifteen pounds lighter
I will be asked to every party and kissed at every dance
and talked to with a purpose
but being fifteen pounds lighter I am fifteen pounds closer to
loving my terrain.
I have a picture in my mind, you see.
it isn’t crafted from anything I’ve seen in others,
but it’s crafted from someone’s home and it’s something I am comfortable with.
I am not trying to be different for the benefit of anyone else
with a pair of eyes
and a set of feet
and two stress-laced shoulders
and one beating heart.
I am trying to be different
because I want to love myself.
I want to send letters to my feet complimenting their strength
and I want to write thank you’s on my hands for
all the things they have had to carry
and I want to touch my stomach and think about how
lucky I am to have skin that fits my soul this will.
I do not think my body is beautiful yet,
but I am trying.
I am trying.
I am trying.
—  a letter to the boy who said to me “why are you on a diet? you look fine.”, cgc

anonymous asked:

OMFG I think u know those bitches who were posting lane address in twitter RUSSIANS R SO FUCKIN SICK ABOUT LANE her twitter was just banned, congrats guys But I still can't understand why she and some other russian girls were posting his address FUCKIN EVERYWHERE poor lane I wanna burn all these stupidies cause I think that he will get sooo many letters, and police will just say to everyone like go fuck urself and stop give him our mail:C #deathtotutova #deathtoabubikerov

  • I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.
  • It’s not just “Russians” that are “fuckin sick” about Lane.  It doesn’t matter what country you’re from.  People from America are “fuckin sick” about Lane too.
  • Who cares if people are posting his address everywhere?  His address isn’t PRIVATE, it’s PUBLIC.  You can access ANY INMATE ADDRESS through ANY DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS WEBSITE.
  • Poor Lane?  Poor Lane…why?  Because he’s getting…FAN MAIL?  Poor Daniel Parmertor, poor Russell King Jr., poor Demetrius Hewlin, poor Nick Walczak, poor Joy Rickers, poor Nate Mueller.  Poor FAMILIES AND FRIENDS that lost someone that day, that were injured, or directly hurt by his crime.  
  • The prison could give a shit that he’s getting mail, he could give a shit that he’s getting mail.  He disposes of 99% of it anyway.  What on earth is wrong with you?
  • I’m Russian.  Fuck off.