Aliens have invaded and are taking over. Their technology, intelligence, and power is unstoppable. They just didnt plan on one thing: The old gods returning.
When they first arrived, we were overjoyed. Proof that we weren’t alone
in the universe, that there were other races to share and exchange technologies
with! Their arrival brought about world peace – with other life forms out
there, we needed to present a united front. World hunger and poverty was solved
within a decade, a demonstration to our new friends that we were worthy of the
responsibility of exploring the galaxy.They disagreed.
They accessed our histories, they saw everything, and they recoiled in
horror. They could not fathom the world we had created, and the solutions we
had brought about not because it was the right thing to do, but to impress
them.They were not impressed. They told us, regret tinging the translators,
that we could not be trusted as keepers of this world. The damage we had done
was coming close to being irreparable, and for our own good they’d need to take
over.I have to say, I agreed – humans are terrible. But the funny thing
about humanity is, even if something is right, if it means giving up our
control, it is wrong.We fought back.
At first we fought back democratically. This race that had descended
from the stars was peaceful, never seeming to favour violence. We didn’t think
they’d start killing indiscriminately. We didn’t think they’d take inspiration
from our own history books.As with so many other things, we were wrong.
An extreme group of humans succeeded in ambushing and killing several
of their high-ranking Xenos. Human lives were lost in the process, but the
extremists saw that as a necessary sacrifice, a means to an end. The Xenos had
been shown that we wouldn’t tolerate their kind here, that they should leave
and let us get on with things how we always have.Within days, war had been declared, and we learned why we should have
tried harder. Had they decided to simply fight the moment they touched down, to
systematically advance and wipe out every human life they came across, we
wouldn’t have stood a chance. Their weapons, armour, tactics, the sheer
firepower and the size of their armies were beyond comprehension. Out of rage
and grief, they marched over us, and began the slow process of wiping us out.
Bullets couldn’t pierce their armour and shields, rockets fell to the ground
lifeless, and even nuclear devices were somehow disabled mid-flight.Still we fought back. Humans never have figured out how to give up when
all hope is lost.There was no formal resistance of rebellion, we simply gathered,
fought, and survived where we could. When something new happened, it took
weeks, months, to reach every last survivor.And then, something unbelievable happened.
Stories started filtering through to the pockets of us in hiding, strange
stories – a freak electrical storm in Greece that appeared from a clear blue
sky and wiped out a thousand of them in less than 15 minutes; Xenos impaled on
braches of rare trees, some kind of grisly warning that we chalked up to particularly
violent survivors in that area; whole armies frozen to death because the
temperature around them had dropped too quickly for their environmental suits
to keep up with. Freak weather patterns that worked in our favour, violent
survivors, terrain they couldn’t navigate. That’s what we told ourselves when
the stories filtered through.But then they got weirder. There were stories of Xenos being swallowed
by the ground itself. A pack of wolves, larger than anything ever before seen
appeared from a crack in a mountain range to storm through an encampment and
kill every last Xenos. There was a massive surge in the number of corvids
around the world, and they always seemed to congregate where the Xenos were
thickest… days before something killed everything. Then they’d vanish, and more
corvids would appear somewhere else. Harbingers, just like the old tales.One day a massive seafaring vessel chasing a fishing trawler was pulled
under the water – no reefs or icebergs in the area, and the sea mines had long
been disarmed and deactivated. I spoke to a man who had been in the sloop
running from the Xenos ship, and he swore blind the Kraken had got it, the
tentacles alone bigger than the tiny boat he’d been huddled on. He shuddered
and drank too much, and I put it down to hallucinations caused by a bad batch
of moonshine. There was no such thing as monsters.Then we heard about warriors. We heard about chariots, of all things,
chasing down whole platoons of Xenos in Egypt, chariots so bright it felt like
staring into the sun; a huge hound with three heads was spotted in Greece, a
man in shadows and a woman of light removing the leash as Xenos advanced on
them; a woman showed up in Iceland standing head and shoulders above the
tallest man there, with an army of her own. They didn’t seem to fall in battle,
and pushed the Xenos back, fighting with sword and shield and spear, a fury
that our alien invaders couldn’t match.Humanoid creatures with eyes of fire supposedly began granting wishes
over in Syria, as long as your wish was for them to kill your enemies. There
were sightings in Ireland of pure white horses, horses that once ridden wouldn’t
let you off, that dragged people into bogs and rivers. Tales came out of brazil of monstrously large snakes, sometimes
with the faces of women, dragging aliens into the gloom of the rivers and
rainforests.But there’s no such thing as monsters.
I finally believed when I saw three women facing down the largest army
of Xenos I’d ever come across – at least twelve thousand by my counting. I’d
been running from a scouting party, and when I stumbled out of the treeline onto
a road I realised they’d chased me right into the path of the oncoming horde.The moment you face your death is a strange one. Everything felt calm
except the thundering of my pulse in my ears, and the crows that seemed to come
from nowhere to blot out the sun.Then three women strolled into the road in front of me, placing
themselves between me and the advancing army. A young woman, barely out of
girlhood; someone who could have easily been my mother; and a woman so old she
was almost bent double. It was the oldest who strode towards the mass of Xenos
without any fear, leading the other two towards their deaths, and the din of
the crows got louder.The youngest one glanced my way and smiled playfully, and something
from my grandmother’s tales made me flatten myself to the ground, hands clamped
firmly over my ears.The scream started low, in the back of the old woman’s throat,
travelling through the ground and making every bone in my body shudder with the
vibration. Realisation began to dawn on me as Maiden and Mother joined in with
their Crone, and the scream climbed to a crescendo that could have shattered glass.
Even with my hands tight over my ears it pierced me to my core, a screaming
agony that made me want to curl in on myself and die.I survived because it wasn’t meant for me.
The Xenos, however, felt the full force of the rage these women contained.
An entire planet’s worth of grieving poured out of them in this shriek, rooting
their enemies to the ground with the difference in tone and pitch between these
three women telling their stories.The mother stood tall and resolute, screaming her grief at these
invaders, a mother mourning all of her children.The crone’s low snarl was that of war. Weary of the fighting but always
ready to defend what’s hers, she growled her challenge, and the Xenos couldn’t
stand against it.The maiden was hope, the only act of defiance in a world on the edge of
ruin. When everything was dust, when the last stragglers of humanity were
contemplating giving up, she was the hope that kept them fighting.Part of me wondered how many shirts they’d washed, how many rivers they’d
wept together, before standing up and saying “no more.”The scream stopped abruptly, leaving me feeling like the breath had all
been sucked out of me, a void in the air around me that rushed back in and
filled my lungs with a long, shuddering gasp.I opened my eyes to carnage. The Xenos had died where they’d stood,
their organs haemorrhaging, what passed for blood pouring from every orifice,
their eyes turning to liquid in their skulls. Bodies were everywhere, and the
crows circling overhead had fallen silent, uninterested in the feast this must
have surely been for them.The Morrigan was one woman now, ageless and terrifying.
“Get up, child.” She commanded, and I had no choice but to obey,
trembling legs pushing me to my feet. She reached out a hand, and gently wiped a
trail of blood away from my ear. “Did you really think we’d abandoned you?” She
murmured, and the crows descended, carrying her to the next battle.Monsters are real, and some of them look like people. But the Gods are
also real, and they still believe in us.So I’m still fighting, and my battle cry is full of hope.
Tag: stories
Yeah, I wish I could fly or run at super speed or teleport. Whose doesn’t?! But the superpower I crave most acutely is the ability to dreamwalk.
There are innocent uses. You show up in your friend’s recurring nightmares and tell her that this time, it’ll be okay – she’s safe, her dreams are made of dust and fantasy, and she can control them. You chase off the monsters and demons and teach her how to turn lucidity on and off. She can rest easy without your help.
But oh, god, you can also make the person who gave her those nightmares in the first place pay for it. Sleep tight, shitlord! What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream? Are you ready to have bad dreams for the rest of your life? I hope you like sleep deprivation, asshole, ‘cause I’ve got a full tank of nightmare fuel and you’re riding shotgun.
Corrupt politician ready to vote for an evil bill? He can’t prove that you terrorize his dreams! Maybe he’s a rich bastard who will never experience any of the horrible consequences of his actions first hand…but he’s a rich bastard who wakes up screaming every night because The Ghost of Christmas Fuck You has come a-calling.
Honest to god this is so close to my mood right now I am cackling. Holy shit.
Dream is honestly the most underrated spell in D&D. I mean, think about it. You wait for your enemy to fall asleep, and bam! Take 3d6 psychic damage, a CR 3 Nightmare, and a level of exhaustion. You can literally torture someone with a low Wisdom save to death in their sleep across the course of a week.
Players, if you want to seriously screw with your DM, use this to have your PCs torment the BBEG. DMs, vice versa.
Good Boy
It began on a Tuesday. Later, she would tell people that this made sense. Nothing bad happens on Tuesdays. He knew better, but he was far too polite to contradict her.
The offering had changed. Usually it was the standard bowl of cream, which he ignored. He wasn’t a cat. There was one outside almost every door. Not hers.
He knew what it was long before he found her door. Floating above the heavy, yellowing smell of dairy, twisting through the shimmering scent of the Fair Folk – leaf-mould, rainwater, Sambuca and not enough sunlight – was the tang of blood. Meat.
His ears twitched. His maw began to slaver. He was hungry, so hungry. There were no offerings for him. He took what he could get at The Hunt, but it was never enough.
He followed his nose. There, outside a door that smelled greenish-blue and soft. It sat raw and wet in a little dish, piled up like rubies.
One of Them was crouching over it.
They didn’t eat meat. It was poking at it with one long, long, long finger, disgust twisting all four of its mouths. It hissed, clicked, and all the quills on its spine bristled with fury. Not the cream it was used to.
He growled.
It turned. Shifted so it was blocking the meat, just out of spite. It wasn’t going to eat the meat, but it certainly wouldn’t let him eat it, either. It shifted its smell – something the Fair Folk always did when they wanted to give him a headache – and waited for him to leave.
He snapped at it. It shrieked, flapping backwards, and scythed out a claw. He lunged forward and bit, jaws tight around its arm. There was a crack and it came away in his mouth. He shook it around, just to show the thing who was boss, and it ran shrieking down the corridor.
He spat out the arm by the greenish-blue door. He wasn’t going to eat that. The bones felt like bark and tasted like mouldering leaves, and there was fresh meat waiting for him.
He settled down to his dinner and licked the bowl clean.
There was more meat the next day. The arm was gone, though. Ripples and dents spattered the floor from where the thing had bled, but the corridor was empty. Good. Sometimes the Fair Folk needed reminding of what he could really do. Too many of them saw him as another of their shiny, knife-like hounds. He was another thing entirely.
He’d left scorch marks on the floor too. The RAs wouldn’t like that. One of them had tried to chase him off with a broom when he’d been at his weakest and the whole experience had been very undignified.
The royal family employs no bodyguards. A would-be assassin discovers why.
“Please?” the crown prince said hopefully.
The assassin hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“Come on, you’re doing great. Just one stab, it’ll be easy-peasy.” The prince spread his arms wide, leaving his throat and chest vulnerable.
“Look, I’m going to level with you,” the assassin said. “I took this contract on the assumption that you were a bad dude. Usually when a country goes bankrupt this fast, it’s because whoever’s in charge is raiding the treasury. But once I infiltrated the guard, I actually had to spend time around you, and you’re just.” The assassin threw her hands up in disgust. “You’re a really nice person! There’s no getting around it! So I’m not super on board with murdering you now. Nothing personal.”
“But if you don’t, my sisters won’t get the life insurance payout, and the country will be in debt for the next century!”
“I’m pretty sure arranging for your own assassination is insurance fraud.”
“Your whole job is to commit murder,” the prince said, “and now you’re worried about a little insurance fraud?”
The assassin pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, let’s back up and think about this rationally. Have you considered faking your own death?”
This was not what I was expecting, and it is glorious.
baby dragons that sleep in your fireplace and roll about in the soot and the ash trying to get comfortable on burning logs, screeching loudly whenever people walk by or when more logs need to be added to its roost and not stopping until content again
baby dragons with wings that are disproportionate to their bodies until older but nonetheless stubbornly trying to pick themselves up off the ground by running and aggressively flapping and managing to only get a few feet off the ground for a few seconds before crash landing
baby dragons that haven’t been exposed to priceless things such as gems and gold pieces and instead infatuate themselves with other unusual shiny things — like silverware, brass clocks, instruments, and pots and pans
baby dragons who get cold in the winter and crawl up into their caretaker’s clothing (almost always while said clothing is being worn) and curl up as tight as possible and begin to make sounds similar to content purring as they sleep
baby dragons making whiny hungry bird noises until they’re fed
baby dragons being afraid of the family cat for a while until after a few days the cat wanders up to the sleeping pile of scales and fire and curling around them for a nap in the sunshine
baby dragons stealing the shiny car keys and chewing on them
baby dragons gently nibbling on the jewelry of their favorite people- and not so gently with people they don’t like
baby dragons blowing tiny puffs of smoke out their noses when they snore
baby dragons using the cat’s scratching post
baby dragons wearing tiny saddles with knight-in-shining-armour action figures riding on their backs
baby dragons roasting mini marshmallows mid-air when you toss them before eating them
baby dragons hiding on top of bookshelves and cabinets when they don’t want to go to the vet
baby dragons having to be trained to shed the soot and ash from the fireplace before climbing into bed w/ their owner (If you scratch them at the base of the spine just above the tail their scales rustle and vibrate)
baby dragons having to learn a proper hoard size, collecting everything they can (silverware, trinkets) until they have enough items and enough quality items to be picky and choosy, ending up with a main hoard and ‘spills’ of subpar items that are cast aside, piles of outgrown and inferior treasures
baby dragons on shoulders wrapping their tails around their owners arms for comfort and curiosity, isosceles tip tapping with interest at knuckles and figures to see what’s going on
baby dragons winding around ankles like cats
baby dragons hypnotizing birds, lizards, mice, other small animals, playing with them and play-hunting
baby dragons playing with fire, blowing gently on candles to make them flicker and then huffing them out, attempting to relight them, bringing small items to toast and light aflame (its considered wise to let them play with fire to learn discipline and how it works before they can produce it at will)
baby dragons using their claws and teeth on scratching posts and wood furniture, but also scratching their scales against rough surfaces, abrading treetrunks and scratching against table corners
baby dragons purring and rumbling and it sounding almost like metal grinding
baby dragons swallowing stones to help digestion and grind up food, baby dragons spitting out little owl pellets of fur and bone cause they cant pass them yet
baby dragons curling up with each other and getting tangled up and their spikes and scales hooked together while sleeping
baby dragons ❤
@nyodrite highly relevant and very important
Prompt: your werewolf girlfriend is introducing you to her parents tonight and you want to make a good impression
She sneaks up on you while you’re rearranging that one unruly curl for the umpteenth time and you are assaulted by the flat of an overly affectionate tongue, throwing the whole operation back to square one. With a frustrated grunt you bat her away and try to salvage what you can.
“Aw, I can’t help it,” she says. “You’re so cute, getting all fancy like that. I didn’t even know you owned a shirt this clean.” She presses another open-mouthed kiss to your cheek, wrinkles her nose. “You taste weird.”
“It’s foundation and you shouldn’t be tasting me half an hour before we leave for dinner.”
Her devilish smile softens. “You’re really worried about this.”
“I’m not worried, I’m just- I want them to like me.”
She barks a laugh- the pun is warranted, so inhuman is the sound. It’s not the right night for the shift but it’s close and you know her well enough to see the places where she’s beginning to fray, the calm and clean of her melting away like wax. How is your girlfriend, all eyeteeth and moonfever, keeping it together better than you?
“Of course they’re gonna like you. They’ll love you.” She wraps her arms around you and nuzzles against your ear. “Ask me how I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I love you. We don’t agree on everything- no family ever does- but they’ve always been supportive, about everything.”
Her hand hovers over her abdomen, a ragged pink scar just barely hidden under a little black mesh top you picked out for her birthday. It’s not really a look that screams “family function” but you suspect there’s more to it than that. She doesn’t like to hide, wants the world to know what she is in what little ways she can make them. Her scar is a badge, a sign of what she is, and that top is, in a funny way, a sign of what you are to her.
What a terrible sap she makes you.
“I love you too.” You sigh and give your hair one more go. And if it’s not perfect, they’ll have to take you as you are.
Please make a post about the story of the RMS Carpathia, because it’s something that’s almost beyond belief and more people should know about it.
Carpathia received Titanic’s distress signal at 12:20am, April 15th, 1912. She was 58 miles away, a distance that absolutely could not be covered in less than four hours.
(Californian’s exact position at the time is…controversial. She was close enough to have helped. By all accounts she was close enough to see Titanic’s distress rockets. It’s uncertain to this day why her crew did not respond, or how many might not have been lost if she had been there. This is not the place for what-ifs. This is about what was done.)
Carpathia’s Captain Rostron had, yes, rolled out of bed instantly when woken by his radio operator, ordered his ship to Titanic’s aid and confirmed the signal before he was fully dressed. The man had never in his life responded to an emergency call. His goal tonight was to make sure nobody who heard that fact would ever believe it.
All of Carpathia’s lifeboats were swung out ready for deployment. Oil was set up to be poured off the side of the ship in case the sea turned choppy; oil would coat and calm the water near Carpathia if that happened, making it safer for lifeboats to draw up alongside her. He ordered lights to be rigged along the side of the ship so survivors could see it better, and had nets and ladders rigged along her sides ready to be dropped when they arrived, in order to let as many survivors as possible climb aboard at once.
I don’t know if his making provisions for there still being survivors in the water was optimism or not. I think he knew they were never going to get there in time for that. I think he did it anyway because, god, you have to hope.
Carpathia had three dining rooms, which were immediately converted into triage and first aid stations. Each had a doctor assigned to it. Hot soup, coffee, and tea were prepared in bulk in each dining room, and blankets and warm clothes were collected to be ready to hand out. By this time, many of the passengers were awake–prepping a ship for disaster relief isn’t quiet–and all of them stepped up to help, many donating their own clothes and blankets.
And then he did something I tend to refer to as diverting all power from life support.
Here’s the thing about steamships: They run on steam. Shocking, I know; but that steam powers everything on the ship, and right now, Carpathia needed power. So Rostron turned off hot water and central heating, which bled valuable steam power, to everywhere but the dining rooms–which, of course, were being used to make hot drinks and receive survivors. He woke up all the engineers, all the stokers and firemen, diverted all that steam back into the engines, and asked his ship to go as fast as she possibly could. And when she’d done that, he asked her to go faster.
I need you to understand that you simply can’t push a ship very far past its top speed. Pushing that much sheer tonnage through the water becomes harder with each extra knot past the speed it was designed for. Pushing a ship past its rated speed is not only reckless–it’s difficult to maneuver–but it puts an incredible amount of strain on the engines. Ships are not designed to exceed their top speed by even one knot. They can’t do it. It can’t be done.
Carpathia’s absolute do-or-die, the-engines-can’t-take-this-forever top speed was fourteen knots. Dodging icebergs, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by mist, she sustained a speed of almost seventeen and a half.
No one would have asked this of them. It wasn’t expected. They were almost sixty miles away, with icebergs in their path. They had a respondibility to respond; they did not have a responsibility to do the impossible and do it well. No one would have faulted them for taking more time to confirm the severity of the issue. No one would have blamed them for a slow and cautious approach. No one but themselves.
They damn near broke the laws of physics, galloping north headlong into the dark in the desperate hope that if they could shave an hour, half an hour, five minutes off their arrival time, maybe for one more person those five minutes would make the difference. I say: three people had died by the time they were lifted from the lifeboats. For all we know, in another hour it might have been more. I say they made all the difference in the world.
This ship and her crew received a message from a location they could not hope to reach in under four hours. Just barely over three hours later, they arrived at Titanic’s last known coordinates. Half an hour after that, at 4am, they would finally find the first of the lifeboats. it would take until 8:30 in the morning for the last survivor to be brought onboard. Passengers from Carpathia universally gave up their berths, staterooms, and clothing to the survivors, assisting the crew at every turn and sitting with the sobbing rescuees to offer whatever comfort they could.
In total, 705 people of Titanic’s original 2208 were brought onto Carpathia alive. No other ship would find survivors.
At 12:20am April 15th, 1912, there was a miracle on the North Atlantic. And it happened because a group of humans, some of them strangers, many of them only passengers on a small and unimpressive steam liner, looked at each other and decided: I cannot live with myself if I do anything less.
I think the least we can do is remember them for it.
May your Christmas be merry! Might I request some space mermaids/sirens?
They think it’s a ship at first, it’s so large.
It’s only when it twirls around them and two brilliant violet eyes fill their view screen do they realize it’s a creature. The bridge is silent as the creature pokes and prods, and then finally decides their ship means no harm and flies away.
Except maybe fly is the wrong word, because the top half of the creature is humanoid, long white hair and skin so black it nearly blends into the emptiness of space.
But the bottom half is a glittering white tail, and the way the creature moves is less like flying, and more like she’s pushing herself through space, like she’s – swimming through it.
There are a couple humans on the ship, and after their shift ends they find each other to grab hands and jump up and down all while screaming “SPACE MERMAIDS!”
The non-human members of the crew consider this rather tame behavior, all things considered, and leave them to it.
wakeupontheprongssideofthebed:
You’re a regular office worker born with the ability to “see” how dangerous a person is with a number scale of 1-10 above their heads. A toddler would be a 1, while a skilled soldier with a firearm may score a 7. Today, you notice the reserved new guy at the office measures a 10.
You decide it’s best to find out what you can about this person. Cautiously, you approach his desk. He’s a handsome man, tall, but with a disarming smile. How could such a friendly guy with such cute, dorky glasses be dangerous?
You extend your hand. “I noticed you’re new here. What’s your name?”
He shakes your hand warmly. His gaze is piercing, as if he’s looking right through you. “The name’s Clark,” he says. “So, how long have you worked for the Daily Planet?”
This one wins.
It’s been a few weeks, and one of Clark’s friends shows up. She’s pretty and all, enough muscle that she must work out. First thought would be that she should be maybe a 6.
Clark’s introducing her around. “This is my good friend, Diana, she’s in from out of town.”
You blink, and take a step back in fear. You’ve never seen an 11 before.
The day Bruce Wayne shows up for his long promised interview with Lois Lane, you can’t help it, the mug your holding drops from your fingers and sends a shock of hot coffee and ceramic shards across the floor.
Clark stops a few feet away and squints at you worriedly from behind those ridiculous glasses you’re 99% sure he doesn’t actually need, and asks tentatively, “Everything all right?”
You ignore him in favor of staring at the inky dark numerals hovering over the beaming fool gesticulating some fantastic yacht story for a gaggle of secretaries and minor columnists.
That’s it. Your gift has officially gone haywire. There is no other explanation. Because there is absolutely no way that Brucie Wayne is a 10.
IT GOT BETTER
i want realistic modern fantasy like
someone finding a dragon egg and livetweeting the process of trying to hatch it (with no prior knowledge on how a dragon egg should be hatched)
a guy selling an enchanted sword on craigslist
a tattoo artist who does spell runes but for really mundane stuff like conjuring a bound demonic pen or for summoning your keys
summoning a demon for the vine
selfies with mermaids
prank calling wizards
Omg yes.
News about cops breaking up a djinn-trafficking ring.
Changelings leading the front of a pride parade.
An ad looking for a new IT wizard because the current one wants to retire.
Local zoo throwing a special event because they just acquired a breeding pair of unicorns.
Hedge witch bartender tells you to come to the bar in the morning ‘cause he makes a hangover cure that actually works (patent pending).
An imp loose in the neighborhood has been stealing cell phone chargers (and only the chargers).
A druid leatherworker makes Gucci knock offs that are both really good looking and insanely durable.
Teenage dryad goes around the neighborhood offering to mow lawns, or make them grow lush and thick if they’ve got bald spots.
Yuki-onna ice cream shop: freaking delicious, but the ‘sorrow’ flavor will literally make you cry.
Incubi on Grindr.
Death itself waiting on a subway platform: Twitter and Instagram blow up.
Clumsy young dragon flies into the oncoming traffic air lane and crashes into an angel. Traffic cops struggle to keep straight faces while getting the statements.
A merrow employee gives guided tours at the Aquarium from the far side of the glass.
Enterprising dragon has begun making glass and marketing it to the going green crowd.
Little old lady tells her grandchildren about the time in her youth when she dated the prince of Atlantis.
Celebrity gossip magazines seem convinced that British royalty are entangled in a polyamorous relationship with the Fae ambassador’s siblings.
Young girl at her first AA meeting gets tips and support from a vampire who got way too obsessed with beer a few years ago.
Raijin works at the power plant, flinging lightning into capacitors. He finds it boring.
Wizard uses magic to sort recyclables at the waste plant, and will talk your ear off about reducing waste if you give her a chance.
saratogaroad 