DRAFT features the daily lives of an Artist and a Writer who live together in an apartment. With their clashing personalities, weird things and hilarity are bound to happen.
(Cover art courtesy of https://www.facebook.com/Color.LES.kuru/)
One just need to have cash, the list of things to buy, and go to the supermarket. Easy as cooking rice.
Unfortunately, one of the many shoppers in the local supermarket couldn't even cook rice.
"Tell me again why are we buying groceries? Last time I checked our supplies, we are well-stocked until next month." the Writer asked, wondering why she was suddenly dragged by her flatmate to the supermarket. By dragged, as in the Artist barged in her room, told her to suit up, and after she did, she was dragged to the parking lot and shoved inside her flatmate's Volkswagen. Everything was a blur to her and here they were, in the supermarket, wandering around without her knowing why.
They already bought some meat - beef -, black peppers, butter, flour, and some other ingredients sealed in packets. And at the moment, the two were in the vegetables section wherein the Artist was looking at the potatoes and carrots.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Coz I suddenly craved for Japanese curry." The Artist placed two potatoes in the basket.
"I see. Hmm, I haven't had any Japanese curry since Alex took me to some Japanese restaurant for research purposes," the Writer mused, watching the Artist inspecting a small potato.
"Alex?"
"My editor. Her name's Alexia, or Alex."
The Artist made a face upon hearing the name of the Editor. "And here I thought her name was Hades or somewhere along the lines of Lucifer's wife or Satan's favorite daughter."
The Writer shrugged. Ever since Alexia and her flatmate's first meeting, the Artist never warmed up to her editor. "She's not that bad..." she trailed off.
"'Not that bad'? She said she would use her Hermes belt to strangle me if I so ever fed you pineapples." The Artist pointed at the fruits section. "Last time I bought some pineapples home, Pluto's half-blood was there and began lecturing me how you're allergic to pineapples. Like seriously, are you really allergic to those things?"
The Writer nodded, agreeing that she was indeed allergic to pineapples. "Yes. They give me hives all over my body. Last time I had em, accidentally, Alex tied my arms to stop me from scratching while she put some cream on my body." It was not a memory she would say is the best yet also an unusual event.
"I'll keep that in mind," said the Artist, picking up another potato and placing it in the basket. She then took out a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to the artist. "Will you double check if we have everything we need?"
Taking the paper, the Writer looked at it and instantly blushed madly. "What in goddess Sága's holy name is this list?" Her breath hitched and she immediately crumpled the paper and threw it to the Artist's head.
"ACK!" The Artist turned to the Writer, glaring at her. But knowing the Writer, her glare would look like a kitten's compared to the hawkish glare of her flatmate. "The hell? Why did you do that?!"
"Look at your list, idiot."
And so the Artist did. She picked it up from the floor and uncrumpled the paper. What she saw was nothing out of the ordinary. Just her random sketch of a semi-nude faceless woman. Her glare now replaced with a satisfied smirk. "What's wrong with it? I think I did good in capturing the essence of a woman in this sketch."
The Writer wanted to whack the Artist with her shopping basket. "I should really murder you in your sleep. It's so tempting," she said coldly.
Oh how the Artist shuddered hearing such threat from the Writer. Recovering quickly, she flipped the paper and handed tit back to her flatmate. "The list is on the other side, dork."
When, the Writer, wary if there was even words on the paper or another nude portrait, she took the paper and she let out a relieved sigh when she saw what was on it. It showed the ingredients to use for cooking curry. "Why did you even write your shopping list at the back of your smut drawing?"
The Artist merely smiled widely, eyes akin to a pair of crescent moons.
Without waiting for her flatmate's reply, the Writer compared their groceries to the list. "Seems we have all of it."
"Good! Now let's go and pay for these so that I can cook it!" the Artist announced happily, leading the way to the cashier.
"Maybe I should cook it this time? Seems easy,"
The Artist stopped dead on her tracks and turned to face the Writer with an expression of true horror. "I know I shouldn't have written the list at the back of my sketch, but that doesn't mean you have to poison me."
The Writer's eyes narrowed. "I'm fairly sure I'll strangle you while you're sleeping and no one would even hear you scream."
