the midnight men

Happy PRIDE Month from Midnighter Monday!  Check out my commission by Don Aguillo.  Don’t forget to check out Iceman #1 out THIS WEEK!  Support LGBT Superheroes!

Whenever I feel in a witchy rut, like I don’t know what to do next, or simply stalled in my practice, I go back and re-read the Witches Sequence of the Discworld books by Terry Pratchett.

Nothing will teach you more about witchcraft than Granny Weatherwax.

One of my favorite things about fairy tail is the men’s collectively bizzar fashion sense.




The fuck are you wearing?

The fuck is this?

What is on your shoulder, Gajeel?  The fuck is that made of, feathers? From what?

Why is the armor only on your shins?

Why is your shirt only sleeves?

Are those pants really necessary? Or functional?

This whole outfit is a shit post.

Seriously, is this supposed to be a vest or a jacket?

Bickslow has two different versions of this shit

additionally, Bickslow has tattoos on both his face and tongue, which seems questionable and excessive, but I digress.

What era do you think this is, Freed?

Literally, no one questioned this as casual, everyday wear.

I mean, COME ON!

Then there’s Gray who can’t keep his shirt on, and Laxus who can’t put his arms in his damn sleeves, but this post seems long enough.


Don’t touch my man men, boy


Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 are here!

I’m FINALLY happy to announce that I had the treat of illustrating the brand new paperback editions of Sir Terry Pratchett’s Tiffany Aching adventures. This job was truly an honour, and it’s the first time a female artist has illustrated a book by Terry Pratchett! Hurrah!
The first book ‘The Wee Free Men’ will be released April 27th.

The grim photograph above depicts the lynching of Laura Nelson and her 15-year-old son, L.D. Nelson. Disturbingly, this photograph was once used as a proud postcard for Okemah, Oklahoma. On the 2nd of May, 1911, Deputy Sheriff George Loney formed a posse and made his way to the Nelson farm. A cow had been stolen from another nearby farm and they had penned L.D. as the thief of said cow. When they arrived at the house, L.D.’s father, Austin, confessed that he had stolen the cow purely because he had no money to feed his hungry family.

What happened next has been obscured by time; several reports offered different versions of events. What is known for fact is that a scuffle broke out and L.D. shot and killed Sheriff Loney. It was said that Laura had attempted to hide the gun so that violence could not unfold. Both L.D. and Laura were charged with the murder and sent to county jail, where they awaited their arraignment. However, that arraignment would never come.

On 24 May, a group of a dozen to 40 men arrived unannounced at the jail at approximately midnight. The men bound, gagged and blindfolded the jailer, rendering him unable to later identify them. Once he was immobilised, the group kidnapped Laura and L.D. from their cells. Several reports claim that Laura was raped my several of the kidnappers in her jail cell. From the jail, the lynchers took them to a bridge over the North Canadian River and hanged the mother and son.

Nobody was ever charged with the brutal murder but it was alleged that one of the perpetrators was Charley Guthrie, the father of the singer, Woody Guthrie.

Breakfast In Bed

A fic for the Carry On Valentine’s Celebration


I’m not sure exactly what wakes me, whether it’s the smell of something burning or the string of curses muffled by my bedroom door. Whichever it is, it has me out of bed in record time and racing toward the smell, my mind supplying all the worst possible explanations.  The flat’s on fire and Simon’s trapped, we won’t be able to get out because something’s blocking the door…

           I stumble to a halt when I reach the kitchen, expecting sky-high flames, orange and red and black smoke and…

           Simon is in front of the stove, coughing and swearing and pacing around, wearing a polka-dotted apron and the biggest oven mitts I’ve ever seen.

           When he sees me, he stops pacing and his face falls.

           “Morning, Penny,” he mumbles, staring at the floor.

           I make my cautious way toward him.  To my relief there doesn’t seem to be anything on fire, but the kitchen is a total disaster.  There’s about five oranges scattered across the counter, and there seems to be less juice in the pitcher than… everywhere else.  Flour dusts every surface, leaving white handprints on half the cupboards, and there are at least three empty eggshells in the sink.  Why he put them in the sink rather than the bin escapes me. When I reach him I find what appears to have once been an egg in a skillet on the stove, accompanied by a blackened piece of bread in another pan.

           I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

           “Don’t look in the oven,” Simon mutters with a sigh.

           “Simon,” I manage, “what is all this?”

           He meets my eye with a wince.  “Happy Valentine’s Day?”

           I shake my head.  Nothing around me makes sense.

           “I was going to surprise you, alright?” Simon confesses.  “I know I have Baz and you have Micah, but there’s something to be said for friendships, too, and I thought it might be nice for you to wake up and have breakfast in bed and biscuits and tea and -”

           As if on cue, the teakettle starts whistling.  Simon rushes to take it off the heat and pour some water into my favourite mug, which he’s prepared with my favourite tea.  At least he got that part right.

           “You did all this for me?” I gape, taking the mug from him.

           He opens his mouth to answer and the oven starts beeping.  Leaning down with a grimace, Simon cracks the oven door and a wave of smoke hits him in the face, setting him off coughing.  I put down my tea and race to turn off the oven, extinguishing the heat on the stovetop as an afterthought.  Simon manages to stop coughing and leans his forehead on the fridge in shame.

           “I’m sorry, Pen,” he groans, “I’ll clean this all up, I swear.”

           I don’t bother to say anything.  I just slip between him and the fridge and throw my arms around his neck, not caring how much flour I’m probably getting on my pajamas.

           “This is so sweet, Simon,” I mumble into his shirt.  “Thank you so much.”  He hugs me hard and warm, like he’s thanking me for something, too.

           It’s then that there’s a knock at the door, followed by the soft creak of someone letting themselves in.  Simon lets go of me just as Baz appears with a box from the bakery down the street. He stares at us.  We stare at him.  His eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

           Right on cue, the smoke alarm goes off.

           It’s like the air has been let out of a balloon and we all start to smile at the same time, and then our smiles become giggles, and then our giggles become fits of laughter.

           Baz wipes a tear from his eye.  “Do I want to know?”

           “Probably not.”