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[monacolby]

STRIKER.

what were they , after everything ?? him and mona had seen every inch of each other , had spent days in bed sharing the warmth of the body beside them , and now they stood as just ‘ friends ‘ , or as close to friends as they could get , given their history . each glance lingered a half-second too long , a cavern in his cheek as dimples settled and stayed there . god , what he wouldn’t give to be in the back of his pick-up once again , enjoying chow mein , spring rolls , and a large portion of ramona colby . “ land that on the list of movies you gots t’ show me , then . “ was his comment , voice rolling low in his throat at the prospect of spending time with her , just her , away from the prying eyes of those that knew him . away from the trailer park , they were awarded total privacy ; if they ever tried some of their lewd , stomach-churning activities in the bedroom of the cannon’s home-on-wheels , he would bet money — not that he had any — on a brother walking in on a rather … compromising position . 

and then they were a toe shuffle away from one another . lips clasped shut , suddenly conscious of mona huffing his whiskey-mixed-with-smoke breath ( the beginnings of gingivitis if he wasn’t careful ) , not like she hadn’t tasted it not long before . swallowing a dryness in his throat , one he’d quench with everclear the moment he was through the frog door , the male shook his head ; “ y’know i di’nt mean it like that , colby . you’d look good in some cute lil’ shorts . you got the legs ‘fer it , “ the idea of mona in her daisy dukes , nails painted a bright orange , would last him through the evening . no need for his stack of seedy magazines . “ mr cannon , eh ?? kinda got a ring t’ it . how much you payin’ for a gig like that ?? “ striker’s forehead nudged against her own , sloped nose wrinkling at the bridge . they were close enough now that his struggling vision had no trouble making out every feature , from the bow of her lips to eyes more intoxicating than any home-brewed liquor . 

      the change in his voice is unexpected, but a welcomed one, something gravelly and unsettling in it that makes her stomach churn like butter and her thighs pinch. something in the atmosphere has changed. she’d lessened the distance for purely practical reasons — to show him the photo on her phone, then to pull him into a totally friendly one-armed hug — but now it feels charged, like hitting the accelerator with both his converse-clad feet. he hasn’t said anything, but through the pheromones alone there’s been a switch somewhere by the tiny little men in the control panel of striker’s brain.  “ you wanna do a movie night ? ” mona asks, neglecting to add that it would probably end with them being the ones making the movie. the hand at his abdomen traces up his chest to roll her thumb over the shape of his nipple beneath his shirt. if this were the other way around, it’d probably be x-rated.  “ well, what are you doing tonight ?  you could come over, if you wanted. ”  shrugging, she tries to make her tone casual as possible when she adds,  “ nico’s staying at his dad’s...” like that isn’t just an open return to fuckadilly central.  “ and the team have an away game tomorrow, but i’m not playing, so my schedule’s pretty free. ” 

        if she hadn’t known where this was going at the comment about her legs, she’d know it when his forehead moved to rest against her own. teeth sink into her lower lip. up close, he’s blurry, her eyes darting between both of his dark pupils and his mouth, her tote bag of bargain bits all but forgotten. wrapping her arm up to loop around his neck, she pulls herself flush against him, lessening the distance between them. “ hm.... the pay isn’t great but the perks are pretty substantial, ” mona teases, one hand sliding down his front to trail over the zipper of his jeans and cup against his package. she’s completely forgotten that this ( whatever this is ) is happening in broad daylight outside the discount clothing store, until a boisterous howl of  “get a room !”  followed by a series of childish giggles from their teenage mates startles her away.  “ uh... ”   mona hesitates, flushing and frazzled, because once again this dirty farmyard man has somehow managed to suck her into a separate world and make her completely forget her alignment in the space-time continuum.  “ i mean, maybe they’re right...”  attempting to slow her breath, she moves closer  ( albeit not as close as before ) and loops a finger through his belt loop.  “ do you have plans right now ? we could go somewhere. ”  it’s not meant to sound suggestive, but it does.

[monacolby]

STRIKER.

mona had seen it all before — his marked spine , his whipped back , his shoulders cropped in scars and bruises — and yet there was a hesitance there , a prolonged moment as striker clutched the freshly-bought rag in a bunched pile between his fingertips . backed against the building , shielded by the rough notches of brickwork , he shed the ribbons of his previous shirt , rolling sleeves to cuff at tattooed wrists once his pale , patched-up body was covered . the other was being polite in her suggestions ; in striker’s eyes , frankenstein’s monster wouldn’t have been far from reality , an effortless costume helped along by two bolts gorilla-glued to his throat . “ those bulls up at puhlman’s ‘ave got a bee in their bonnet , tha’s for sure . they charged me without no warnin’ and i got caught on the fence ‘n ripped to damn threads in the process . i know i already look like a scarecrow or somethin’ — freddie cougar — but this is a damn joke . “ could he suggest that mona did the same , dress up as the ladies he had lusted over in his youth ?? an encroaching roswell winter wouldn’t welcome a skimpy red one-piece , that was for certain .

“ i ain’t never seen no breakfast club , no . if it ain’t got pamela anderson in it , i pro’lly don’t know what the hell you’re chattin’ about . wha’s that about , jus’ two hours of some kids eatin’ bacon an’ eggs ?? “ the secondary suggestion was met with the same emotionless eyes , the empty stare as he waited for an expansion that wasn’t coming , an explanation of who the hell marty mcfly was . squinting , leaning close enough to the phone screen that his ski-slope nose bounced straight off the glass , he studied the shade of orange ( although , mona likely already knew he was the worst man to ask for advice when it came to anything visionary ) . “ i reckon that’ll pass . what’s that one for ?? you gonna go as some huge pumpkin or somethin ?? i reckon you could pull it off with some cute lil’ shorts or some boots . nails painted orange t’ match . “ a huff of disbelief , straightening up and crossing inked arms over his newly-covered chest with a tut and a shake of his head , “ — you ever had a brother before ?? there ain’t no way birdie’s lettin’ me put my hands on his jacket . ‘s one of his prized possessions . “ 

        eyes look but don’t linger as he turns. the first time was the hardest, but that skin was like a map which detailed every road that marked his life, each journey that brought him to roswell. he should be in texas, the product of a happy home. she’d change the way it happened, but then they might never have met. still, it feels selfish to want him to be here in any life. freddie cougar’s a new one, but mona doesn’t even feel the need to correct — she likes his version better. his senseless striker-isms are perhaps her favourite thing about him, and certainly the reason they first became friends ;  him with a penchant for spouting absolute nonsense, mona with a propensity to laugh at said nonsense so hard that she’d snort craft beer out of her nostrils. he causes it once more ( sans ale, this time ) with his comment about the breakfast club, or at least an avant garde student film version that mona’s now dying to see.  “ nah... it’s just like... kids stuck in detention all day on a saturday chatting absolute shit. set in the eighties. john bender’s super mischievous. you’d get on well with him. ”

       crap. she’d totally forgotten that he’s like, literally blind. mona almost says as much, but stops herself at the last second. it’d probably just hurt his feelings.  “ a huge pumpkin ? ” mona asks, eyebrows shooting up, feigned horror at his comment. “ are you calling me huge ? ” compared to a pumpkin, maybe. her faked offence soon withers, more interested in his outfit suggestions that correcting his assumption.  “ some cute lil’ shorts, huh ? ”  mona repeats, amusement in her tone as she leans in closer, dropping the phone back into her purse so she can close the distance between them and poke him in the chest. adoration isn’t quite the word for the way she looks at him, but it’s something akin to it. she’s hit with a wave of affection, that same innocent endearment she feels for nico, her hand instinctively moving to loop around striker’s waist.  “ oh ? my nails painted ?”  mona’s pretty sure she’s painted her nails no more than four times in the whole ten years she’s known him.  “ are you my stylist, now ?” her voice affects a gruff droll.  “ mr. cannon will see you in his office... ” 

[monacolby]

ENDER.

black lagoon boat ride — roswell shocktober fest !  ( open for — @roswellstarters​​​ )

“ fine , fine , i’ll go on it with you — but if i get any water in my hair , i’m holding you personally responsible . that means a cocktail as collateral , “ ender loved the spooky , the strange , the unusual , but only when it didn’t interfere with her visage ; she’d already almost broken a nail running from a chainsaw-wielding maniac through hedgerows and had hoped for a more relaxed conclusion to the evening . it had taken some nagging , but the woman had finally resigned herself to one boat trip . is couldn’t possibly be that scary , right ?? “ — and you’re buying us the tickets . do you have any idea how much these boots cost ?? “ 

      mona only rolls her eyes at the other’s antics, a muttered  “ embrace the kink, babes ” as she fondles the other’s signature twists with a wink.  while mona wouldn’t exactly call the two of them ‘ friends ’ — and neighbours was almost definitely the cut off where ender drew the line — she’s kind of excited to spend some one-on-one time with ender, even if the other does complain the whole time. it’s entertaining, at least. staring at the boots, mona narrows her eyes. “ no ? why is that something i’d know... uh, forty dollars ? ”   to mona, that seems like a pretty fuckin’ high-brow pair of boots. “ maybe if you didn’t spend so much money on clothes and shoes you’d be able to treat your neighbour, who’s lovingly agreed to come on this boat ride with you, after you begged and begged, and on her one day off, no less !!  to a ticket... ”  at this point, mona’s winding the other up. there’d been absolutely zero begging on ender’s part, but mona needed someone to chat shit about the not-so-scary ghosts with, and everyone else was working on the shocktober amusements rather than enjoying them. so the haughty neighbour it is. plus, once she’s on that boat, it isn’t like ender could magically get off if her hair happened to get soaked by a freak accident caused by maleficent spirits.

[monacolby]

ANTON.

Anton is, admittedly, flabbergasted by the display. He’s far from critical, a firm believer in self expression ( to a safe degree; freedom of speech doesn’t absolve one of its consequences, after all ), but he’s also well acclimatised to the necessary boundaries set in a high school. Miming what is essentially suicide-by-gunshot and using foul language within earshot of impressionable teens doesn’t quite seem like the right way to go about moulding these youthful minds. Underpaid as they might be– not to mention understaffed –the teaching team carries a hefty responsibility, one that Anton’s always been happy to take on. He likes kids, likes providing them with a safe space to explore and grow. The person before him doesn’t feel particularly safe.

“Uh…”

Aaliyah Jackson and Tegan Brown giggle on their way past. Their gazes dance between each other’s and the teacher’s line, telling Anton all he needs to know. They’ve heard the other– Miss Colby, he seems to remember, staff meetings hammering names right into his brain even if it does its very best to squeeze them back out.

Still, he fishes in his pockets, only to retrieve his own lunch card, an old receipt from Nebula and a blue Bic. “I feel you, I do, but I don’t have anything on me. Sorry.”

            what she’s met with isn’t the resounding, back-slapping kind of support mona had hoped to garner — sure thing, mona, here take ten dollars, in fact, take the food and run ! let’s take down the institution of state-mandated education from the inside — but rather a far more frosty reception. perhaps frosty isn’t the right word, but she’ll interpret his reserved nature as such, spend hours labouring over whether or not she’s just a bit too much, play beyoncé's don’t hurt yourself on repeat during her free period and emphatically sing i’m just too much for you.  not too much, period. the distinction’s important. her coarseness is something that perhaps only striker cannon gets, a shared language like that of pigs raised in a slaughterhouse. years later, out of their cages and into the light, that jagged roughness like the sharp edge of a bread knife lingers. part of it always will.

            “no, no... you don’t need to apologise. it’s my fault.”  for being disorganised, scatter-brained, overly-coarse, a mother whom other mothers with painted nails and chiffon scarves gossip about in their huddles, speculating that she’d secured her job by lascivious means. in truth, a colleague at the sports complex had put in a good word, and she may have hyperbolised some elements of her resume, but who didn’t lie at least a little when going for a job they were underqualified for ?  she’d read on twitter that men tended to apply for jobs even if they only met sixty percent of the essential criteria, whereas women only applied to those for which they met all the requirements. she was hacking the system, and it had worked. so why does she feel like such a square peg in a round hole ?   “ how much without the fries, cynthia ? ”  mona addresses the clerk, still fiddling in her gym shorts for change, to hear that minus the fries she’s still thirty cents off.  “ crap. okay, look. mr ellis ? ”    is it mr ellis ? calling him by ‘mister’ seems juvenile and dickensian, plus she isn’t exactly sure that’s even the correct surname for him.  “ why don’t you cut in front of me, i might be a while. ”

[monacolby]

STRIKER.

after wearing her shirts as near crop tops , grazing the dark wiry hair at his stomach , nothing quite felt the same . nobody else would understand the significance of those red and black plaid flannels ( nobody , perhaps , outside of those that shared his surname ) other than mona , the one that had slept wrapped up in the oversized garments , wordlessly swapping clothes as though gossiping young girls at a sleepover . an undercurrent of neurodivergence , never discussed nor acknowledged , explained his need for certain fabrics , for familiarity , for the same outfits he had held dear for the last twenty years of his life . what they had seen of each could no longer be passed off as mere ‘ friendship ‘ — the first time could have been chalked up to as a simple mistake , the second a whirlwind of misplaced emotion , but now ?? as they stood a few steps away from each other on roswell main street , those twists of smiles couldn’t be mistranslated . “ you can enjoy the show any time , you ain’t even gotta make the most of the freebie . c’mon , colby , gimme a break and throw me somethin’ to cover these up . i can’t go waltzin’ back to old man puhlman with my knockers out , “ trouble befell striker cannon wherever he went . it was no surprise that a bull-related incident had left him with ribbons for a shirt , more so a surprise that he hadn’t thrown himself to the mercy of the beast as sacrifice . standing , knees knocked and conversed feet pointing in opposite directions to one another , he awaited the return of the woman who had absorbed so much of his time and energy only to spit it back out in the form of missed calls and unanswered text conversations . shuffled steps twirled his body in a reluctant catwalk . “ can i get my shirt now ?? an’ i dunno ‘bout a halloween party , colby . we ain’t got any money fer costumes , the three of us , an’ i ain’t built for a rager right about now . “ 

           wolf-whistling, mona tosses him the replacement shirt. her eyes try not to linger as he changes, though she shouldn’t feel embarrassed about it — it’s only the two of them. “ what was it this time ? you look at a combine harvester the wrong way ?”  she’s used to striker turning up bruised, beat and mottled by the various guests of puhlman ranch, and more times than not it’s incidental. still, there’s a part of her that worries there’s moments when he puts himself in the firing line of disgruntled beasts just to feel something, touch something foreign unless it’s accompanied by violence. mouth twitches as she scans him for wounds she could offer to stitch up if only for an excuse to touch him, and makes a note to ask him about it later, when it’s not so easy for him to make a hasty escape back to his breeding bull.  “ you could go as a zombie cowboy. or john bender. he dresses the same as you. ”   mona notes, lips fighting a smirk. john bender had been a childhood crush of hers. “ have you seen the breakfast club ?  if not, we’re having an 80s movie night, asap. ” 

          tugging a shirt out of her tote bag stuffed with bargain buys from better off duds, mona holds it against her phone to compare it to the picture of brock on her screen.  “ do you think this is the right orange ? not too tangy or too muted ?”  she’s seen pokémon by necessity, not by choice. nico had been gifted a patagonia puffer vest by his father on his last birthday, and now he insisted on wearing it with everything ( including his halloween costume ) probably as some kind of proof that his largely absent father existed. she’s pretty sure he picked brock to dress as on the basis that he wears a lime green puffer.  he’d wanted her to go as carole stanley so they’d both be non-white anime characters ( “you’ve got the dungarees and everything !” ) but she’d never seen the show and would feel like a fraud.  “ talking of puffer jackets—” she hasn’t been ; she’d only been thinking about them, but it seeps into their conversation anyway, “ you could easily do marty mcfly ? he wears a plaid shirt, double denim — you could borrow a jean jacket from birdie — and an orange puffer. there’s gotta be someone in roswell who owns one. ”

[monacolby]

ELI:

“My bad!” Eli called out, but before they could make their way down to get the piece of metal, they hesitated mid-action when the woman started to snoop. Ill-versed about movies, the young adult of few words decided to show her a demonstration, neglecting to comment on the latter since they had nothing to add, “How d’you think?” They jumped off for the soles of their boots to land on the 8-yard dumpster, hidden by a harsh shadow. Mona’s Batman reference would’ve gone over their head entirely had it not been for an old friend obsessed with the genre, so the name rang a bell. “Me? Nah, couple bucks short for that crap.” came their dry answer on instinct before clearing their throat. “Nothing. Just…” they tried to find the words, “weeding out my finds, I guess.” Seeing the ring sparkle, they were quick to pick it up. “Who’s asking?”

       watching their handy-work, mona finds herself making a mental note of the steps taken. she’d take nico up there some day. in some ways, this kid reminds her of nico. “you and me both, kid.”  these days, mona always seems to find herself scratching around beneath the rug for spare change.  “couldn’t you use that thing —” mona gestures to the metal detector, “—to find yourself a coup’la bucks. i mean it kinda seems like it was made for that.” crouching, she abandoned the notion that she was going to be climbing up onto any rooftop now that the other had hop-skip-and-jumped their way down, and strung her skates back over her shoulder.  “uh... mona. mona colby. i’ve seen you around the trailer park. or maybe it was the skate park. my son goes there a lot. are you that kid with the tiny bike?”

[monacolby]

MONA COLBY  as  lara croft: tomb raider.

     mona wears knee high pleather combat boots, gun holsters strapped around combat shorts, fingerless driving gloves layered over boxing wraps, a barely-there tank top over a bandeau bra, her hair slicked back in french braids, a strip of bronzer on each cheekbone, winged eyeliner, matte brown lips, the classic noughties sultry smoky eye, her son nico’s old water pistols spray-pained black with canisters nicked from the auto shop.

[monacolby]

✉ sms   ,    kid cannon.

lance: do you think i'd be texting you if i /had/ any leftover whiskey?????

lance: though the idea of swallowing more right now makes me want to hurl

mona: okay, wow. drama queen alert. did you just try to italicise a text message?

mona: i'd suggest going to the pony, but it sounds like you're in no fit place to move. was gonna pop over this evening with some shit for your brother anyway. i'll bring you a bottle, if you want.

[monacolby]

REYNA.              (   lcvity.   )

“Bullshit” they muttered . Had it really been two seconds? Maybe. Reyna had a lot of… less that desirable personality traits. Aside from impatience, the musician was also notoriously nosy. They couldn’t help the way their wandered from the back of the other’s head to the screen. It was too blurry to see anything of course so instead they focused their attention back to their obviously pacing. It had been a while since they had to go on their own marijuana run. Before whenever they needed to partake, they just had to ask their manager or their assistant to get it for them. Reyna didn’t realize how spoiled they were until they started having to do mundane stuff like this on their own. Their pacing finally stopped when the other moved to the side. Her theatrics caused Reyna’s lip to twitch into an assumed grin. Too can play at that game! They offered a curtsy in return, sarcasm lacing their words as they approached the machine.  “Thank you so very mu -” then they spotted the error message on the screen, effectively putting a stop to their mockery “- What the hell?” They turned to the other, brows now furrowed in both frustration and confusion, “Do you not know how to use an ATM? How the fuck am I supposed to get my weed now? ”

        mona’s growing more irritable by the second.  the entitlement that gleams off reyna is disarming ; they reek of privilege. sure, reyna may have been in a hot shit band once, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat people like shit stuck to the side of the toilet bowl.  “of course i know how to use a fuckin’ atm.”  mona retorts, as she begins to pat down the pockets of her cargo shorts.  she’s itching for a smoke.  “just be patient. it’ll go away in a second, then you can stick your card in and do your business.”  her hands land upon the tin, and she slips a rollie out, clasping it between her teeth as she flicks the wheel of her zippo. in another life, perhaps the two of them might have been friends, both equally guarded and ambitious to a fault. but in this one, all mona can hope from reyna is a little human decency.  “sounds like a you problem...”  a nico-ism she’s adopted from her teenage son, currently knee-deep in his emo phase. “maybe if you had been nicer, i would have offered to spot you.”

[monacolby]

location:  roswell high school canteen, 12.47pm.     with:   @colorbops

          much to her son’s dismay, today’s a school day ; from monday to wednesday, mona’s at the satellite sports complex, running the roller derby league, picking up the odd spin class session and then thursday rolls around and she takes over two gym classes and after-school cheer practise at roswell’s local high school. it’s her busiest day of the week, hence why she’s approached it bull-headed and scattered, patting down the pockets of her gym shorts in desperate search of change as she hovers at the front of the lunch queue. she can feel the impatience building, a math teacher known to her only as mrs. montana impatiently tapping her foot as mona’s bacon mac & cheese and carton of fries  ( a beige buffet of sizzling carbohydrates )  sit cooling on a garish yellow lunch tray.  “ hey, ”  mona starts, a frenetic energy in her eyes as they snap to the person behind her in the queue. the new spanish teacher’s cute in a dorky sort of way, a stripped back, mellowed out version of the quirky best friend in an irreverent new york sitcom.  netflix always uses that word — irreverent — and still mona’s no closer to understanding what the fuck it actually means, only that it usually involves someone in a hawaiian shirt sleeping on a couch and tragically over-performed open mic nights.  “ can you spot me like...” she calculates the amount that she’s short, using her fingers like a pre-schooler. “ — a dollar seventy ?   totally forgot to top up my lunch card this morning. ”  fashioning a gun with her index finger and thumb, mona mimes placing the barrel inside her own mouth and pulls the invisible trigger with her thumb.  “ i mean,  montana’s behaving like i fucking ate a child and shat them out in front of her.   it’s like, have a bit of human decency, dude.  not everyone’s good with numbers. ”   that latter comment’s half-whispered, conspiratorially, a secret shared between allies. “ i mean you must get it. you’re new, right ? ”  

[monacolby]

✉ sms   ,    kid cannon.

Lance: I need your best hangover cure asap

Lance: I'm supposed to be at work in an hour and my head is bangin' louder than the cars

mona: crush up an asprin and swill it back with a glass of whiskey.

mona: hair of the dog works every time, kiddo

[monacolby]

ELI.      (   chewworks.   ) 

After spending some time metal detecting just outside Roswell, Eli sat on the rooftop of an abandoned one-floor building, looking through their discoveries at sundown. One leg swung over the edge when, in their rummaging, a ring rolled over to be kicked by their boot. A sharp ping was heard, and catching someone in their peripheral, they reacted, “Watch — ! … it.” Fuck. Trouble always seemed to follow them.

       they’re lucky mona’s come straight from derby practise. skates laced over her shoulder and knee-pads still firmly in place, her helmet’s unbuckled but still sitting on her skull, so when the hardy ‘thwack’ smacks against the vinyl, she’s largely unaffected. dazed and confused, she juts her chin up, almost losing her unclipped helmet in the process, her eyes zeroing in on the figure on the rooftops.  “the fuck ?    this right here is some a24 coming-of-age indie movie bullshit.  how’d you get up there anyway ? ”  dropping down her skates and her string bag of groceries ( mostly dry non perishables  — oat milk, waffles, a carton of eggs, cans of soup and instant noodles ) mona’s eyes dart around looking for a way up. “ commissioner gordon shine a light in the sky and you came out of your secret warehouse lair, or what ? ”  

[monacolby]

STRIKER.          (   strikercannon.  )

better off duds ! ( open for — @roswellstarters​ )

the plaid shirt  — one of two , close in color to the point of being indistinguishable — hung in shreds from striker’s body . ribbons draped over arms , clinging by threads from an oversized torso ; this time around , instead of being attacked by any of puhlman’s livestock , he had lost a one-way fight with a barbed wire fence yet lived to tell the tale . no shoes , no shirt , no service — crudely tattooed skin exposed , he lingered in the doorway of ‘ better off duds ‘ , awaiting a familiar customer for him to extort . “ hey — can y’ help an old guy out ?? “ the male questioned , gesturing to striped attire that resembled that of a scarecrow or a character plucked from ‘ friday the 13th ‘ , “ — ‘n go grab me a shirt from in there or somethin’ , just so i ain’t walkin’ around with my tits out . can’t give people this type a’ show for free , now , can i ?? “ 

         “ nah. think i’ll let you sweat. ”   mona remarks, sucking on her sports bottle like it’s a lollypop, her tongue circling the mouth hole.  “ i always did enjoy a show. ”   she resists the urge to comment on his tattered appearance — no doubt another run in with a farm animal that a few stitches from mickey and a lick of salve would fix — though admittedly a slight pulse of worry embeds itself in the apple core pit of her belly.  since their dramatic reunion at the hospital, mona back from a month-and-a-half stint at cheer camp to find striker a bed-bound mess, they haven’t spoken about what this is ( if it’s anything ) in so many words.  still, her caring instinct has her retreating back into the store, selecting the most offensive looking item she can find — a tweety bird t-shirt with the words ‘nice tits’ coming from his beak in a cartoon speech bubble. she passes a wad of bills to the gum-snapping cashier and slips the shirt into her string bag, along with the freshly purchased collection of jeans and corduroys for her idiot son nico. he’s ruined his last good pair or trousers knee-sliding, parkour-ing and falling off his skateboard, and has taken to wearing mona’s denim overalls, which ( while cute ) is massively depleting her wardrobe supply.   “ give me one last twirl then, handsome devil... ” mona chortles, holding the new shirt hostage until striker gives in.   “ you might wanna keep that, though. ”  she indicates to the bloodied rag masquerading as a shirt.  “ halloween’s comin’ up, and it’s tradition that the colbys throw a rager. ”

[monacolby]

RHYS.           (   rhysevantaylor.  )

for: @roswellstarters​ location: around lunar crescent

The whole thing was ridiculous and the expression on his face was only becoming more and more frustrated as the seconds ticked by. Rhys had days where things similar to this happened, but it was usually over pretty quickly, he’d dart past the gate, make a grab for the escape livestock and have them back in his backyard in less than a minute. Today, however, it felt as though he’d been chasing this particular hen around and around the cul-de-sac for over half an hour. He’d stopped to take a breath, hands on his knees, leaning down slightly, when he spotted someone. “You can help or you can laugh… but help really would be preferred…” he offered, smile on his face weak.

         a tittering laugh cuts through the air. mona colby’s never been known for her manners. her lack thereof are more infamous in these parts. she’d dated a boy from lunar crescent once, held her elbows to make herself seem smaller, less threatening, lace up biker boots and a denim cut-off with more holes than she knew what to do with. the mothers weren’t as obviously mean as their kids, but they’d turned their faces as she passed, like they could smell the poverty on her skin.   “nah, i’m good just watching...” mona notes, when addressed, tossing a handful of bubblegum blue millions into her mouth. sugar was a childhood currency she could never get her hands on enough of, sometimes under the guise ‘it’s for my son’ but mostly, she didn’t even try to hide her cravings.  “i love to see a grown ass white man suffer. it’s like, a major turn on for me.”

[monacolby]

KEKE PALMER as Emerald Haywood in NOPE 2022 | dir. Jordan Peele

[monacolby]

application.

           * nathalie emmanuel & she/her / cis-woman‷ watch out , ramona colby has crash-landed into roswell !! they look thirty three years old and celebrate their birthday on 8th august. they are from roswell, new mexico, reside in greystone complex and are currently working as a peewee cheer & roller derby coach at the satellite sport complex. one thing you should know about them is she was a straight-a student on track for yale until a teenage pregnancy knocked her out of the running for valedictorian. a war with social services, several rounds of rehab and an attempted kidnapping later, she’s back in roswell trying to straighten her life out and win back custody of her child‷ ( nora )

pinterest.    playlist.     muse tag.     another muse tag.

stats.

name:  ramona ingrid colby. nicknames:  mona, coach (soccer kids), colby (teammates, striker cannon), romy. age:  thirty-three gender & pronouns: cis woman, she/her. occupation:  coaches peewee soccer and the roller derby junior league. otherwise, works on a zero-hour contract at the satellite sports centre and just picks up hours where she can to fit around childcare and classes at the local community college. archetypes:  the feminist. the ace. the jock. the ball breaker. the track star. the would-be valedictorian. the fall from grace, the tomboy, the biker babe, the go getter girl, the ladette. zodiac:  leo sun, gemini moon, scorpio rising. neighbourhood:  greystone complex. residency:  was born in roswell in the tripps trailer park, but was a looked after child for much of her teenage years and was frequently in and out of foster homes across new mexico. tattoos:  so many. literally covered. and i’ll list them at some point. but for now…. mysterious. faceclaim:     nathalie emmanuel

aesthetics.

thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, bleach white sneakers pounding on a gymnasium floor, setting dumpsters on fire for the hell of it. a hit flask of vodka decorated with hello kitty stickers, split knuckles, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, a child in an oversize bee keepers suit, scabbed knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you,  a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

personality.

vibrant, vulgar, self-absorbed, tenacious, veers between apathetic and dogmatic, temperamental, gregarious, flighty, unreliable, somehow also a natural care-giver, magnetic, charismatic, passive aggressive, fiesty / fighty, likes to play devil’s advocate, takes the moral high ground. estp and a leo

likes.

70s music, john wayne movies, black mirror, philosophy, cowboy chic culture, dc comics, the smell of locker rooms, deep red lipstick, lacrosse sticks, smoking weed from a bong, dogs, karaoke, late-night strolls, hawaaiian shirts worn open over a bralette, skinned knees, thai food, picking the apples at the very top of the trees, when other ppl get super excited about their thing and talk about it loads, zip-lining, cigarettes, the idea of pegging but not necessarily the practical application of it, decorative lamps, lgbtq+ pin badges, worn-out furniture, twangy electric guitars, telling men that ‘female fronted’ is not a music genre.

dislikes.

girls who call other girls ‘pick me’ girls, woody allen movies, mental mathematics, wealthy children, quentin tarantino, ironing, institutionalised misogyny, the imaginary future, french literature, ‘dump him’ feminism, wes anderson films, spoken word poetry nights, college-educated bar staff who act like they’re better than you,  indie softbois, the general mentality of cheerleading squads.

character references.

natalya (russian doll), casey (atypical), jackson marchetti (sex education), rue bennett (euphoria),  toni shalifoe (the wilds), dot campbell (the wilds), kat stratford (10 things i hate about you), coach (dare me), fiona gallagher (shameless), viola (she’s the man), 8-ball (oceans 8),  missy (bring it on), scout (to kill a mockingbird), nymphadora tonks (hp) sam (dear white people), maggie mayhem (whip it), cool girl monologue from gone girl except she is cool girl who sucks dick and drinks beer and watches football with the bros 😭😭 i know its unattainable, amy. i know. bt u dont know mona like i do.

history time.

abortion mention tw, sexual assault tw, neglect tw, drugs tw, addiction tw

trauma is stored in the mother.

the way mona sees it, if you trace it back far enough, it always circles back to mothers. considering she never met her father, it’s the only thing she’s ever had to draw reference from. her story is as muddled and inconsistent as her mother is, and sometimes she fabricates details where there are pieces missing, patched like her denim jackets with cut-out swatches and iron on logos until the original design is unrecognisable.

she does know that her great grandmother, miriam, was ashkenazi jewish, the kind who grew up to the smell of freshly baked challah every week, who spoke yiddish at the shabbat table, raised close enough to new york city to inherit the accent but far away enough to skip the haughty attitude.

mona’s grandmother, maya friedman, the second youngest of seven siblings, was raised much the same as her own mother, but was a new yorker through and through. she took up smoking in the eighth grade because she thought it looked cool, shaved her head in the sixties when it was stylish to wear it long, caught the subway into brooklyn to attend college parties, was late for synagogue or would miss it altogether.

the late sixties were a blur of technicolour acid. grandma maya had ruth in san francisco, after 1967 - the summer of love, raised her in a commune where the parties were constant, the sex was a free-for-all, and motherhood meant little more than sharing the same genetic code.

growing up the way she did, it was hardly surprising that ruth became an unreliable mother herself, her moods as fickle as the ocean, mona never knowing if she’d come home to find the trailer host to a reiki healing, a yoga class or a ecstacy-fuelled rager where strangers would fuck in her bedroom. for much of her adolescence, ruth couch-surfed through los-angeles, squatted in new york, she went city to city selling trinkets and candles and offering spiritual guidance, believing herself to be the divine voice of wisdom on chakra alignment after she slept with a buddhist monk.

about a tomboy (1989-1999)

mona was born in roswell in 1989 after ruth moved to roswell because ‘the energy there was drawing her’ and the ‘ley lines connected the place’ or some other bullshit that mona never really believed. what was more likely was that the rent was cheap and the liquor was cheaper.

ruth had met mona’s father in new york. he was norse, descended from the vikings. mona inherited his viking spirit along with his name, the ‘colby’ tacked onto the end of ‘ramona’ always asking more questions than it answered.

what she knew of håvard colby could fit on the back of a stamp; he was covered in tattoos, wore his hair long and braided, stuck around long enough to suggest only a name, ramona, after joey ramone, before he took off to california. as a child, mona fantasised about him showing up to take her to a better life, one where she could sleep through the night undisturbed by the drunken rows of her mother and one of her college-aged lovers.

obviously because of that she has a lot of daddy issues (oy mista!! you me dad??). except from her marriage (which lasted a few years and ended in a bitter divorce) mona tends to hop from relationship to relationship and not really commit because she has never really accepted that what she’s looking for is that security and safety she never felt she got as a child.

for most of her childhood, mona’s only anchor was her mother, the trailer, and a revolving door of her mother’s lovers who seemed to change week on week. ruth didn’t want her to think of her as an old fuddy duddy mom. she was a hip cool mom that kids in elementary school envied. which was great until it wasn’t.

ruth didn’t believe in sheltering kids from anything. her philosophy was that mona was bound to learn sooner or later, so why bother trying to protect her. mona’s childhood consisted of holding a pillow over her ears to drown out the drone of all-night parties where ruth would smoke and drink until gone four in the morning, then pass out and spend the rest of the day on the sofa.

mona would get up, make her own breakfast, empty out a litany of beer cans and emptied spirits bottles, sort out the recycling, scrub vomit from the stairs, go to school with her hair unbrushed, smelling like a brewery, stay late in the library to delay the journey home, and return to find the house as messy as she’d left it, with another party already in full swing. sometimes mona would stick around, hang out with the adults there. they found her cute and charming, complimented her dimples, braided her hair, told her about the time they’d ridden elephants naked through thailand in the seventies. she found them fascinating, but when you hear the same shitfaced stories every week it starts to get old pretty quick. rinse repeat. this becomes her life.

ruth believed that the rave was meditation in it’s most pure form, that drugs expanded rather than inhibited the mind. if mona thought she was unreliable and neglectful, ruth claimed that it was only because mona was unenlightened. it was only after she confessed to rubbing opiates onto mona’s gums while she was breast feeding to calm her down that mona began to see there was something seriously wrong.

she gets catcalled in the street most days, told that her mother’s a fifty-cent hooker and she’ll be going the same, doing tricks for less. she embraced it, would tell them she’d fuck their fathers better than their mothers could, would lose nails, hairs, teeth in fist fights that she’d scramble from laughing with a mouthful of blood.

the bee-keeper’s apprentice (1999- 2001)

she finds solace in melvin abernathy, a local beekeeper whose trailer she passes on her way home from school, swinging her backpack, dragging her heels, in the hope that it’ll make her journey home longer. she’s made keeping busy look like an art, mathletes on tuesdays, track on wednesdays and fridays, debate club on thursdays, and evenings stretched out biking the dirt tracks into the night whenever she has hours to kill.

melvin starts as an acquaintance (she likes the way he looks in his beekeepers suit - like an astronaut from a bowie song) then becomes a friend. she likes the fact that he’s lived in roswell almost his whole life and yet nobody knows anything about him except for the fact he keeps bees. part of mona craves that level of anonymity.

one day, he surprises her with a child-sized beekeeper’s suit. he gives her a lesson in beekeeping, how to know which bee is the queen, the most humane way to extract honey from the hive. at ten she gets her first bee sting, (the prized-pin badge of a swollen pimple on her arm) and the next time runs faster. by the time she’s been beekeeping for three months she can run the length of the gym and back three times faster than anyone else in her class. after six months as melvin’s apprentice, she can sprint a lap of the trailer park and be back before the kettle’s boiled. she teaches him to make candles out of beeswax, the way her mother taught her (though these days she’s mostly too out of it for candle making). when melvin sets up his online shop he names it the colby honey company.

at eleven, mona tries out for the track team. in the changing rooms, they all strip down to their underwear. her coach notices the bruises that sometimes appear on her arms, the way she gouges into fruit like it’s going out of style, raised on a diet of takeaway pizza and instant noodles, the times when she attends practice smelling of liquor and second-hand smoke. but it’s melvin who eventually makes the call.

property of no one (2001 - 2004)

when it happens, it’s nothing like she imagined it would be, her mother screaming, crying, telling them to take her instead of mona. ruth simply hands a bag to the social worker, watches her get into the car, and lets her go. betrayal stings harder than a smack to the face or the months of sleepless nights ever could.

mona’s then under the protection of the state, uprooted from her life in roswell and shipped around chavez county foster homes, a ‘looked-after-child’ though she always found that term ironic. the opposite seemed true, guardians who couldn’t care less if she was happy or healthy so long as they were collecting the cheque.

the best homes are the ones that ignore her, leave her alone to her own devices in her room, buy her new gym shoes when she splits through the soles of another pair but don’t come to watch her flung from basket tosses at cheer. the worst ones are the ones where they pay her too much attention, where she feels the eyes of foster dads follow her, where uncles slide their hand over the small of her back and tell her she could be a model.

at thirteen, she gets placed back in roswell. she gets a window overlooking the pool outside of aurora apartments, swims there most days. at school, she works harder than anyone, knowing that a scholarship to college is her only way out. she stays late to catch up on the work she misses when she’s out of town for decathlons or model un.

sugar, we’re goin’ down swingin! (2003-2007)

she was the archetypal ‘gifted child’ until she wasn’t any more and her whole life started going downhill. her teachers all said the same thing; that she was bright — like get-into-a-good-college bright —  and she could be absolutely brilliant when she tried, but she was overly chatty, restless, disruptive.

she always thrived when she had loads of shit to do, so she surrounded herself with hobbies to fill up her days. she took up electric guitar, roller derby, did a brief try at drum lessons (although it was mostly banging her sticks against the trailer park trash cans since they couldn’t afford a real drum kit). she was a track superstar in her high school, and was honestly just that sporty bitch who seems to have limitless energy, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am class you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch??

but at the same time, when she crashes, she really crashes, and you just won’t see her for a week because she burns herself out with all the shit she tries to do. at schoo, when something wasn’t going the way she planned she frequently got super burned out and would walk out of classes. her anger was a tidal wave. she had a lot of ‘behvioural issues’ bcos of undiagnosed adhd, she found it difficult to sit still for hours n write down huge chunks of information. often, her restlessness was misinterpreted as laziness.

she had a small circle of close friends — jett, marley and ian, although she tells herself ian’s more of a rival than a friend. she falls victim to vices, she gets drunk with marley, parties with jett, hangs out in the band room with ian long after the other kids have gone home. they butt heads in class, but love each other in secret. he’s come from a loveless home like hers, and she finds community in the people from broken homes for whom life hasn’t been no picnic either. at sixteen, her and ian make things official. at seventeen, she gets pregnant with nico.

this is one doodle that can’t be undid, homeskillet (2007 - 2013)

suddenly the sports scholarship to an ivy league college sounds like a distant pipe dream. she can’t keep the kid, because it would jeopardise her future. she can’t get rid of the kid, because that would make her as bad as her mother.

she knows that at this stage it’s only the size of a strawberry, a collection of cells made up of mona and ian, that it would be quick and painless, easy as falling asleep, but part of her wants to do better than her mother. she goes to the clinic twice and leaves before they can even announce her name. on a whim, mona decides she’s keeping the baby - if juno macduff can do it, so can i.

in senior year, she drops out of high school (much to her teachers dismay). they tell her she’s wasting her potential but she thinks she’s been given a second chance to do something good with this baby. her and ian get married at eighteen, which seems like a pretty renegade thing to do, especially since mona’s always been adamant she doesn’t need a man, but maybe the baby will. she doesn’t want this kid to grow up like she did, always feeling like half of the puzzle was missing.

nineteen comes and goes; mona’s friends go off to college, and she’s left in the trailer park once again wiping up vomit and shit, only this time it’s for a baby and not for her mother’s rowdy house guests. there’s a part of her that’s jealous for the life she didn’t get to lead, the life that she thought had been promised to her. she never regrets having nico, but sometimes she wonders what her life might have looked like if she didn’t.

they still go to protests, little nico on their shoulders, ear defenders and a pacifier in the shape of a fog horn. mona becomes a vegan like ian all for the sake of making this family work, though the cracks are starting to show. for a few years, they make it livable, but then the puppy love dies and their common interests aren’t enough to keep them together. in their early twenties, they separate. mona issues divorce papers that ian still hasn’t signed, holding on to a piece of her out of spite.

alanis morisette - you oughta know (2013 - 2017)

divorce era mona is not good, i won’t lie. it’s the first time since she was 15 or 16 that she’s been properly single. she goes a bit mad with the power that comes from being a milf.

but it’s also financially the worst period of her life. between needing to be around to pick nico up, having never finished her high school exams, and having the attention span of a goldfish, she struggles to hold down a job. she goes from dead end job to dead end job, working the gas station, the arcade, the crashdown until she’s fired after a yelling match with a rude customer and figures that customer service is definitely not something she excels at.

there are times when she finds herself so deep into poverty that she stands in the store, a frozen pizza in one hand, toilet roll in the other, cries before she can make a decision. she relapses after the divorce, falls into old habits, ends up in the greystone complex with kids she partied with at school, who split the childcare like a twenty bag of weed.

by this time, nico’s at school. she sees how easily the cycle can repeat itself, moves out again, finds a place in the trailer park, picks herself back up, gets a job at the satellite sports centre after one of the suburban moms she goes jogging with puts in a good word. tells herself that by the end of the year she’ll have completed her ged. she’ll apply for community college. one day, she’ll get her ivy league.

while working at the sports complex she hears about a job going in the gym department at nico’s school. she loses out on the gym teacher role, but gets hired as a coach for peewee cheer instead. she coaches three times a week after school, makes an army out of string bean girls, bends their polly pocket spirits into the viking one her father gave her.

her saving grace and the thing that gets her through this period is roller derby. she’s introduced to it by one of the soccer moms. it’s like cheer but less glitzy, soccer but less gendered, in roller derby they all have monikers. sylvia wrath. ruth blader ginsberg. tess of the derby wheels. courtney shove. hers is ramona devours, though she’s been thinking about rebranding herself as carmen slamdiego or m.c. jammer. they/them pronouns are the default in derby.

it starts as a hobby, but two years later she’s coaching the junior team. it becomes her life. she feels like herself when she’s on skates nipping between rows of angry butch non binary folk trying (and failing) to shove her off the track. being a jammer in a roller derby scrim is chaos and mischief in it’s finest form. it gives her the strength to stick sobriety through and become a better mom for nico.

what doesn’t kill u makes u stronger !! 2017 - pres

in 2019 her best friend dies and she ends up fucking his husband (aryan). admittedly not her finest hour.  

she falls back into destructive habits, having never been one to do anything in small doses. she has to let it consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning.

addiction takes her like a bull by the horns. she starts seeing her mother when she looks in the reflections at house parties in jupiter valley while nico’s at his dad’s. she hears her mother’s voice in the receiver when she hangs up the phone after calling her dealer. she remembers the way her mother talked about how raves were zen buddhism in it’s most condensed form, and the mindlessness, thoughtlessness she gets when she’s high. she grapples with relapse, goes to rehab twice, vows to stay clean for nico.

one night, a drink at the wild pony turns into pints and karaoke, turns into lines back at the trailer park and a one night stand she won’t remember. she’s late to pick up nico the next day from the gas station where her and ian swap over the reigns. they’ve had his suspicions that she’s using again for a while, but when she shows up, bedraggled, eyes still wide, vowing that she never does any of that shit around nico, that he’s always been her priority. that she’d die before driving under the influence or getting high while he’s in her care.

it doesn’t matter. when mona goes hard, it’s hardly subtle. an anonymous source (which is later revealed to be ian) tips off social services that she’s using again, and they show up at the trailer park one afternoon asking around. she pulls him out of school early, borrows striker cannon’s truck, and fills it with all that she can to start a new life with nico. it isn’t a well thought out plan but it’s the best one she’s got, and having grown up in care, she can’t let the same fate fall on nico. 

they make it as far as santa fe on fake id’s made by mickey cannon using cash in hand to get food and gas. in santa fe, they’re cornered. a crying nico’s torn away from mona while she’s kicking and screaming, the reaction she’d imagined her own mom having all those years ago when she was taken by social workers, although it doesn’t even feel ironic, it just feels cruel.

nico’s temporarily put in ian’s care while a custody hearing is arranged. technically, she’s not meant to see him, although nico still sees her on the weekends.

it’s been a few months now since it all kicked off and nico was taken by social. she did another stint at rehab, and hasn’t touched drugs in six months. she’s working on getting a steady income, and building a bank of reliable character witnesses who can testify to how great she is with nico and how well she’s been trying with rehab. she’s not going to go for full custody - but she wants to at least get joint custody split between her and his father.

she recently negotiated a pay rise with the sports complex and is now an assistant trainer. she’s moved out of the trailer park and is living in a two bedroomed apartment in the greystone complex. that brings us about up to date with the history, now i’ll move on to headcanons!!   [screams at a pitch so high only animals can hear bcos this is so fuckin long]

headcanons.

mona is pretty disgusting but she’s also so hot that she gets away with it. she has no table manners, doesn’t do fancy dinner dates or black tie events, but she’s never missed one of nico’s parent-teacher evenings.

she loves dirt. ate a worm once as a kid because someone dared her too. shamelessly disgusting.

part of her mother that’s lingered has been her love of the outdoors. mona feels most at home in nature. she likes foraging for mushrooms. she finds comfort in storms. when she needs to calm down, she’ll go to the water.

she’s a strident feminist, an activist for human rights and animal rights, and an all-round soapbox sadie. catch her in the market shouting about human rights through a megaphone. will most definitely have quizzed your character on institutionalised racism whilst inhaling nos at a party and snacking on a big bowl of cheesy wotsits

she’s a firecracker but also the most apathetic bitch you’ll ever meet. like so chilled out that it’s concerning. you can count on her to lower the mood with a nihilistic comment. but its like that nihilism meme where the guy is in a hawaiian shirt with sunglasses and says life is meaningless nothing is real while throwin up a peace sign

she can’t deal with pushovers or people who sit on the fence. she likes to surround herself with people who have opinions on things and fire behind their eyes, even if those opinions are shit and she totally disagrees, she’d rather befriend people with opinions than people who are just kinda meh about everything.

she never actually finished senior year so she’s currently going to night school at the community college to get through her exams and is trying to save to go to college or open university. she wants to major in criminology bcos she’s obsessed with true crime but she doesn’t want to end up as a cop bcos acab. she’d maybe like to be a homicide detective or a crime scene photographer. she’s super ambitious but also super adhd so she fluctuates between thinking she can achieve anything to just feeling like a failure n thinkin whats the point. right now, she likes her job at the sports complex, she loves the kids she coaches, and she’s pretty happy in roswell, even though she’d never admit it. things r lookin up miss colby

self proclaimed milf. loves flirting with soccer dads. they all fancy her and their wives hate her. i wish mona wasn’t but she’s totally one of those girls that’s like “omg…. i just get on with guys so much better…. they’re less drama”. yea, i wonder why, slut. that’s mean, she’s not a slut but very easily could be.

lies for fun about really insignificant things like her name and her age and her job. addictive personality n gets obsessed w ppl easily. can’t really diffrentiate between platonic and romantic love tht well. has dated a lot of douchebags.

always jogging or drumming her fingers or tapping her toes and even if she looks like she’s still there’ll be a part of her that’s moving. gets that restless energy out. when she’s not working, she’s at the rink playing roller derby, or jogging, or soap box racing with the cannons she has a lot of restless energy and constantly has to be doing something, and so it reflects in her appearance that she’s always on the go. she rarely ever wears make up. she sucks at eyeliner, would only ever wear it if someone else did it for her.

hot but in a trailer park kind of way. there’s something greasy and unwashed about her. she always looks like she’s just come from working out, which usually she has. it’s rare that you won’t see her with her skates round her shoulders and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

usually bruised, grazed or covered in plasters from her various sporting endeavours. she likes to see the bruises she gets playing hockey and roller derby as little trophies.

nihilistic but in a 🤙  nothing matters and life is meaningless 🤙  fun kinda surfer way.

style / aesthetics

dresses completely instinctively without any sense of cohesion so she tends to stand out, even if she doesn’t mean to. a guy once told her she was wearing the ugliest outfit he’d ever seen and he thought that was so ‘cool’ and ‘brave’ of her. honestly she’s a big ass 90s alt-girl stereotype. she’s the badly-translated t shirt you see on a meme page with a picture of mickey mouse that doesn’t match the text. she’s the baseball cap that says ‘south dakota fishing champion’ or the sweater that says ‘mississippi: catfish capital of the world’. the hawaiian shirt hacked into a crop-top, tied just above her belly-button. she’s the fake adidas tennis skirt with a shoddily embroidered ‘adidos’ across the hem. she’s the ripped jeans cut into shorts that fall just below the knee, sport socks and converse no matter the occasion, a slip dress from goodwill thrown over a band t-shirt in an attempt to look more ‘girly’ but kind of ruining the gentleness by the fact that she’s got clumpy docs on with it.

growing up, mona’s style was way different to what it is now. she was one of the cheer girls, she ran track, she did a million social clubs, she went to parties and somehow still managed to ace classes. all of her clothes were hand me downs and she never had anything first-hand. she tried so hard to dress like the other girls with the little resources she had. at school, she was accused of sleeping with one of the cheerleaders’ boyfriend, because she was wearing his jumper. he’d donated it to the goodwill she volunteered at when it got ratty, but they wouldn’t take it. she was meant to throw it out with the other clothes that weren’t sellable, but instead she took it home. so when the cheer girls accused her of sleeping with adam, it was easier for mona to take the hits and be called a slut than admit she’d found his jumper while burrowing through the trash. she went from cheer captain to being on the bleachers in the space of a lunch hour all because of a sweater. in some ways, it was a relief. it meant she didn’t have to pretend any more. she could start being herself.

when she stopped caring about what she was wearing and what people thought about her, she found that her style evolved into something that felt more her. she didn’t care that she wore her grandpa’s old shirts, baggy and open over a bralette; she looked good in them. she rocked his baseball caps with weirdly specific fishing slogans. she made torn jeans work for her over a pair of crappy dollar store fishnets.  she wears backwards caps, heart-shaped novelty sunglasses, has wristbands all up her arms. her coat is an army surplus jacket covered in badge pins.  she loves dungarees and boiler suits, because you don’t have to think about what to pair with them, it’s already done the work for you.

wanted plots.

people she jogs with

people she coaches at the sports complex !! she wants to be a personal trainer

ppl she used to get fucked up on a rager with

ppl who she grew up with in the trailer park n understand why she is the way she is

someone whos also obsessed w bees n will let her teach them how to keep bees

ppl who will indulge her need to discuss her theories on aliens (shdnt be hard to find in this group)

b4 she dropped out, mona used 2 b in with the cool kids at school bcos she wld steal booze from her mom and bring it to parties and not ask for money. maybe a fun plot cld b with some of the ‘it girls’ she used to hang around with b4 she got pregnant n dropped out and they all went off to college n stopped texting her.

locals who play sports. mona wld be all over community soccer n take it way too seriously. maybe ppl she plays hockey with. girls who she’s like, weirdly intimate with but its not a thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

since she can’t rlly differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships

ppl she goes foraging for mushrooms with or camping in the wilderness with.

her son can skateboard and she’s trying to learn so they can hang out together more so maybe someone to help her with this. she’s p good at balance and sick at roller derby but a baord??? different geography.

even tho she fuckin hates her mom, didn’t believe in tarot or rakie healing or chakras or any of that, she thinks she may have been onto something with the whole buddhism gig (minus the drugs n raving being buddhism at its core).  i reckon she might have recently started meditating to try and calm down her mind cos its always bustling with thoughts, n i think she’s p interested in buddhism so if anyone’s a buddhist hmu

someone she’s trying to make a zine with on female empowerment and women in film and art, etc. just a very feminist zine

     tldr summary of mona.

short angry sports gal who likes feminist literature, wearing leather jackets over slip dresses, and smudged red lipstick. hawaiian shirt nihilist jock. roswell-born, would-be-valedictorian track star turned teen mom drop out, turned rehab cautionary tale, turned slowly putting her life back together to win back her 12-year old-kid. ran away w/ her son when the child services threatened to take him. eventually they caught up with her and temporarily put him in the care of his dad ( in roswell, wanted connection !! ). now she’s trying to put her life back together to prove she’s a good mom. just did her 3rd stint at rehab and is six months sober !! she works as a roller derby instructor and coaches peewee cheer, is training to become a personal trainer at the satellite sports complex, but her long-term goal is to eventually go to law school to study criminology ( with the hopes of becoming a private investigator, homicide detective or a crime scene photographer ).  she is currently re-taking her exams through night classes at the local community college !!  

[monacolby]

REYNA.           (    lcvity.    )

who: open @roswellstarters​ location: anywhere! 

Patience was a virtue that Reyna did not posses. They were uncertain how long they had been waiting but it was evident in the way they had begun to paced around with their arms crossed against their chest that it had been enough for them to grow restless. Not like that was saying much. A few more long, excruciating seconds pass before they finally call out,   “Are you almost done?”

       tempestuous to a fault, mona hates being rushed. the same restless instinct cords through her muscle, drives her, berates her at every point she questions why she isn’t further ahead in the invisible race she’s constantly sprinting against her future self. still, the lack of awareness frustrates her, and before she can stop herself she’s retorting.  “ stop biting on my dick, i’ve literally been here two seconds, ” snapped from the fangs of a dragon before mona turns her attention back to balance displayed on the ATM. still in the fucking minus ? fuck. she was meant to get paid for that freelance gig with the yoga class a week ago. nico needs school trip money, plus she’s already behind on rent. how the hell is she meant to whip up an extra eight hundred dollars ?   resigned to her fate, mona presses the button for card return, only to have it retained by the machine, a slogan flashing across in 8-bit advising her to contact her credit provider.  “ fuck ! ”   not so much a shout as it is an expression of rage, fist slamming against the keypad on the atm.  “ all yours ! ”  adopting a shakespearean bow, mona steps aside for the person behind her.   “ happy now ?  crap.”