I don't know.

I keep getting the feeling that the mood shifts too quickly. And clumsily. And the characterisation seems sloppy. And the writing is lacy and stuffy as always. galsdjfff.

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“I hate summer,” Chelsea grumbled, dropping her bags onto the weathered stone path. She straightened up and wiped a bare arm across her forehead, which was now slicked with sweat. “Why couldn’t we have waited until autumn to move here again?”

“Because that’s a whole season away and we already bought the farm,” Mark replied from several paces in front of her. He glanced over his shoulder to see the brunette glaring at him with raised eyebrows, and then hastily backtracked in his words. “Okay fine—I bought the farm.” Pause. “Without telling you first. I know, I know,” he said loudly as Chelsea opened her mouth, “you already screamed at me for hours about it, back in our old apartment. But hey, nobody said you had to come with me.”

“I did not scream for hours,” Chelsea insisted defensively, her blue eyes narrowing. “And also, if you think I’m just going to let my idiot of a roommate skip off on his own and possibly drown himself in the ocean or something stupid—”

“Oh, shut up,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not you, okay? I actually have brains.”

“I can think of plenty of instances to contradict that,” she retorted. “Such as that one time when you panicked while swimming and forgot you could get out of a pool without a ladder. There’s the school-famous dumb jock for you right there.”

“Chels, that was five years ago. And besides,” the blond added with a teasing smirk, “you were panicking too. Wasn’t that the first time you actually cried over me? Or were there incidents before that I just didn’t see?”

“Shut it, you.” The urge to snatch up one of the bulging bags at her feet and whack him with it was overwhelming. Knowing that neither her strength nor her reflexes matched up to Mark’s though, Chelsea settled instead for picking up her load again and storming over to catch up with her friend. “Fine then, I won’t worry about you anymore. When you die, I call your books. All of them,” she added, jerking her head towards the suitcase that Mark was pulling, its wheels rattling against loose pebbles as he lugged it over the uneven road.

“Nerd,” Mark chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Oi, you two! Bandana girl and overalls kid!”

The smile on the blond’s face faded as he turned to face the new voice, whose tall, apron-wearing owner was striding over from the direction the pair was walking in. “What did you just call me?” he demanded, torn between mild amusement at the nicknames and annoyance at his nickname in particular.

“Overalls kid.” The speaker, a girl sporting salmon-pink hair and a frying pan slung casually over her shoulder, pointed at Mark’s outfit with a shadow of derision in her expression. “You know, since you’re wearing—”

“Overalls, yeah, I think I’ve realised that,” Mark interrupted testily. “I was talking more about the ‘kid’ part, since why you would call me that is beyond me. Unless you actually are an old woman whose crapload of makeup is hiding your wrinkles—”

“Excuse me?” the girl snapped, her cheeks immediately flaring up. Her brown eyes reflected her aggression as she pointed the frying pan straight at Mark’s face like a sword. “First, I’ll have you know that I never wear that disgusting stuff, and I never will,” she snarled. “And second, I’m only turning twenty-one this year, which is probably still older than a stupid teenager like you, so don’t think you have the right to—”

“I’m flattered that you appreciate my youthful looks,” Mark cut in, placing a hand over his heart in mock gratitude, “but the sad truth is, my twenty-first already passed a long time ago. So you’re a bit late to the punch there, Peachhead. Sorry.”

She bristled at the less-than-mature nickname. “How do you put up with him?” she suddenly demanded of Chelsea, who gave a start when the stranger began rounding on her. The height difference between the two females soon became very evident as the pink-haired girl towered over the tiny brunette with a murderous look on her face.

Chelsea avoided her glare and her answer came out in a mutter. “You know, sometimes I wonder that myself... you have no idea.”

“Hey, whose side are you on anyway?” Mark pouted, his suitcase hitting the ground with a heavy thump as he dropped the handle and put his hands indignantly on his hips. Now having gained an ally, the girl smirked at him and threw an arm around Chelsea’s shoulders, a staggering contrast to her hostility just moments before.

“See?” she said triumphantly. “Even your girlfriend can’t stand you, you jerk.”

“Oh no, I’m not his girlfriend,” Chelsea corrected her quickly. “Mark’s my best friend, but we’re not... you know, dating or anything.”

The stranger nodded sceptically. “Uh-huh. Sure. Because a guy and a girl would totally move into the same house by themselves when they’re ‘just friends’, or whatever the shit you want to call it.”

“I’m not lying,” Chelsea grumbled as the girl released her shoulders, but then did a double take. “Wait, hold on—how do you know we’re living in the same house?”

“Well, aren’t you the newest city people who bought the farm?” she asked, beginning to walk away and beckoning for them to follow.

“Er... sure. I mean, yes. Yes, we are.” Chelsea decided not to launch into the story of Mark’s blatant disregard for open communication and asking for permission. Heaving her luggage along, she trailed after the stranger with Mark grudgingly bringing up the rear; he was clearly not impressed with the explosive welcome to their new home so far. Sensing his obvious bad mood, Chelsea took it upon herself to initiate introductions before he could open his mouth and spark another argument. “I’m Chelsea, by the way, and that’s Mark back there.”

“Cool. I’m Natalie.”

“Nice to meet you. I would shake and everything, but... yeah,” Chelsea finished lamely, indicating her occupied hands.

“Here, lemme help you with that.” Despite the brunette’s protests, Natalie wrestled a bulging brown rucksack out of her grip... and then promptly doubled over when Chelsea let go. “Oh—holy Goddess—”

“Tried to warn you,” Chelsea said, watching the other girl practically fall over from the weight of her new load.

“What the hell is in here?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Mark interjected helpfully from behind them. “Just some cans of food, some snacks, a few tools and, oh I don’t know, about fifty-billion clothes—”

“Don’t exaggerate, Mark,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes. “Some of those are yours too, you know.”

“I’m not the one who packed a dozen dresses like I’m going to a cocktail party every night—”

“Oh come on, be fair. I only packed three—”

“You were complaining to me for days about how you couldn’t fit a fourth one in there!”

“You were complaining longer about how you couldn’t bring all of your trophies and crap! At least clothes are a necessity!”

“Are you sure you guys can live together without strangling each other?” Natalie asked as the two roommates glared daggers at each other. “I mean...” She stopped in front of the small, wooden house standing alone on Ranch Island—a shack, it could almost be called, with the state it was in—and scrutinised the rickety building with a critical eye. “Not that this is the best place ever to live in, but I’d hate to see its untimely demise at the hands of two idiots who bicker like an old married couple.”

“I told you, it’s not like that,” Chelsea groaned. The words came out more snappishly than she’d intended, and Natalie’s eyes narrowed.

“Fine,” she retorted in a similar tone, her friendliness slipping away. “I’ll leave you two friends alone then. Suppose you’re just itching to get out there and start failing at farming in any case.”

“Where’d that come from?” Mark suddenly hissed, indignation boiling up inside him.

“You city slickers know nothing,” Natalie said almost accusingly. “Nothing about the meaning of actual hard work... you think you can skip into this place and it’ll be a breeze. I’ve seen them, the whole stupid lot of them who come and go as soon as they make fools of themselves digging in the dirt out there. No backbone, any of them, it’s pathetic.”

“You’re being just as pathetic,” Mark said through clenched teeth. “Insulting our home and passing judgements on us before we even do anything. That’s like me saying you country hicks are all naïve and filthy—which looks like the truth for you at least, so I hope for your dignity the other people on these islands prove me wrong.”

He and Natalie exchanged dirty looks, but nothing more was said as Natalie dumped the rucksack onto the dry grass at their feet, turned on her heel, and then stalked off without a second glance back. Mark watched her go, his green eyes flashing with irritation, until she disappeared out of sight beyond the bridge leading to Verdure Island. “Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. “That little bi—”

“Mark,” Chelsea interrupted warningly. They both remained silent for a few tense seconds before Mark stomped over to the rucksack, dropped to his knees onto the grass, and began wrenching old, second-hand farm tools out of pack with such force that the fabric nearly ripped.

“Fine,” he growled, more to himself than to Chelsea. “Fine. If you need proof, I’ll give you proof, you stupid, judgmental harpy. I don’t need any more people in my life telling me what I can and can’t do... I’ve had enough of that at home.”

And he stormed off towards the vast field behind their house, armed with a hammer in one hand and a chipped axe in the other, ready to tackle the mess of weeds, branches, and rocks littering the soil. Chelsea just sighed and put a hand to her temple as the sounds of violent chopping reached her ears. They had barely been on the islands for ten minutes, and already their new life was off to a rocky start.

This was definitely not what she had signed up for.

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I need critique.