Moon Eyed Fox
@moon-eyed-fox.bsky.social
Snippets of the sometimes whimsical and sometimes macabre, for lovers of cottagecore and cottagegore. Written by @angelamcowan.bsky.social. Occasional lore from WIPs.
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Moon Eyed Fox
@moon-eyed-fox.bsky.social
· Oct 17
You clutch the book in both hands as you stare at the old-fashioned door knocker: a carved fox’s head with crescent moons for eyes, the wood so heavy and dark it may as well be iron. You should be a stranger here, but you would know every ridge of the fox’s fur with your eyes closed.
You spend the day catching up on trimming the shadows of the young fir trees that grow to the east of your cottage - they tangle so easily this time of year - and bring the clippings home to weave into the blanket you’re knitting, midwinter shadows being wonderfully effective against insomnia.
December 6, 2025 at 11:45 PM
You spend the day catching up on trimming the shadows of the young fir trees that grow to the east of your cottage - they tangle so easily this time of year - and bring the clippings home to weave into the blanket you’re knitting, midwinter shadows being wonderfully effective against insomnia.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
He dreams of bare feet whispering after him, down dark halls and through garden paths, closing in no matter how hard he runs. And when he wakes, it’s to a thousand green spear points wrapping his limbs, with all the inevitability of Marley’s chains, dragging him down where no one will hear him weep.
Holly bushes terrify the Earl.
December 2, 2025 at 10:23 PM
He dreams of bare feet whispering after him, down dark halls and through garden paths, closing in no matter how hard he runs. And when he wakes, it’s to a thousand green spear points wrapping his limbs, with all the inevitability of Marley’s chains, dragging him down where no one will hear him weep.
When you check the mailbox this morning, all that’s left of the thumbprint cookies is a scattering of crumbs and tiny, greasy handprints.
December 5, 2025 at 4:21 PM
When you check the mailbox this morning, all that’s left of the thumbprint cookies is a scattering of crumbs and tiny, greasy handprints.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
A single ringing bell wakes you before dawn and you find a tiny glass vial on your pillow. Inside, some ground spice that smells like hot cocoa and heavy snow and, somehow, joyful anticipation. You make thumbprint cookies with it, and leave as many as will fit in the little mailbox.
December 4, 2025 at 4:14 PM
A single ringing bell wakes you before dawn and you find a tiny glass vial on your pillow. Inside, some ground spice that smells like hot cocoa and heavy snow and, somehow, joyful anticipation. You make thumbprint cookies with it, and leave as many as will fit in the little mailbox.
A single ringing bell wakes you before dawn and you find a tiny glass vial on your pillow. Inside, some ground spice that smells like hot cocoa and heavy snow and, somehow, joyful anticipation. You make thumbprint cookies with it, and leave as many as will fit in the little mailbox.
December 4, 2025 at 4:14 PM
A single ringing bell wakes you before dawn and you find a tiny glass vial on your pillow. Inside, some ground spice that smells like hot cocoa and heavy snow and, somehow, joyful anticipation. You make thumbprint cookies with it, and leave as many as will fit in the little mailbox.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
Today yields a sprig of holly, coated in frost with deadly sharp points. You lift it so slowly from the tiny mailbox, but despite your care as you set it in a small silver vase, it pricks you. A drop of blood beads on your finger, and a single, intricate snowflake blooms on the leaf.
December 3, 2025 at 3:12 PM
Today yields a sprig of holly, coated in frost with deadly sharp points. You lift it so slowly from the tiny mailbox, but despite your care as you set it in a small silver vase, it pricks you. A drop of blood beads on your finger, and a single, intricate snowflake blooms on the leaf.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
Today yields a sprig of holly, coated in frost with deadly sharp points. You lift it so slowly from the tiny mailbox, but despite your care as you set it in a small silver vase, it pricks you. A drop of blood beads on your finger, and a single, intricate snowflake blooms on the leaf.
December 3, 2025 at 3:12 PM
Today yields a sprig of holly, coated in frost with deadly sharp points. You lift it so slowly from the tiny mailbox, but despite your care as you set it in a small silver vase, it pricks you. A drop of blood beads on your finger, and a single, intricate snowflake blooms on the leaf.
He dreams of bare feet whispering after him, down dark halls and through garden paths, closing in no matter how hard he runs. And when he wakes, it’s to a thousand green spear points wrapping his limbs, with all the inevitability of Marley’s chains, dragging him down where no one will hear him weep.
Holly bushes terrify the Earl.
December 2, 2025 at 10:23 PM
He dreams of bare feet whispering after him, down dark halls and through garden paths, closing in no matter how hard he runs. And when he wakes, it’s to a thousand green spear points wrapping his limbs, with all the inevitability of Marley’s chains, dragging him down where no one will hear him weep.
The treasure you find this morning is a single knitted sock, barely the length of your thumb. The stitches are lumpy but the colours are bright, and you’re careful to say thank you loudly, and describe what a perfect Christmas stocking it will make.
December 2, 2025 at 3:29 PM
The treasure you find this morning is a single knitted sock, barely the length of your thumb. The stitches are lumpy but the colours are bright, and you’re careful to say thank you loudly, and describe what a perfect Christmas stocking it will make.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
A tiny wooden mailbox appears on your kitchen counter, like it has for many December firsts. Inside, an apple the size of a walnut, so brightly red that it chases nearby colours away. You hold it in your palm, and it begins to pulse in time with your heart.
December 1, 2025 at 3:40 PM
A tiny wooden mailbox appears on your kitchen counter, like it has for many December firsts. Inside, an apple the size of a walnut, so brightly red that it chases nearby colours away. You hold it in your palm, and it begins to pulse in time with your heart.
A tiny wooden mailbox appears on your kitchen counter, like it has for many December firsts. Inside, an apple the size of a walnut, so brightly red that it chases nearby colours away. You hold it in your palm, and it begins to pulse in time with your heart.
December 1, 2025 at 3:40 PM
A tiny wooden mailbox appears on your kitchen counter, like it has for many December firsts. Inside, an apple the size of a walnut, so brightly red that it chases nearby colours away. You hold it in your palm, and it begins to pulse in time with your heart.
You wake with charcoal bruising your fingers, muscles aching in the cold. Hulking figures loom on the walls, edges smeared but with faces detailed as a reflection. You let the fire die, you recall, and burned yourself as you drew. You lay new wood and light a match, and along the walls they shiver.
November 30, 2025 at 4:29 PM
You wake with charcoal bruising your fingers, muscles aching in the cold. Hulking figures loom on the walls, edges smeared but with faces detailed as a reflection. You let the fire die, you recall, and burned yourself as you drew. You lay new wood and light a match, and along the walls they shiver.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
The attic creaked relentlessly when you moved in, and shrieked at odd hours. So you dusted, and painted the window so the sun splintered into rainbows, and played your violin softly on quiet, rainy evenings. Now the only otherworldly sounds you hear are off-key humming, and snores, and sighs.
November 29, 2025 at 3:16 PM
The attic creaked relentlessly when you moved in, and shrieked at odd hours. So you dusted, and painted the window so the sun splintered into rainbows, and played your violin softly on quiet, rainy evenings. Now the only otherworldly sounds you hear are off-key humming, and snores, and sighs.
The attic creaked relentlessly when you moved in, and shrieked at odd hours. So you dusted, and painted the window so the sun splintered into rainbows, and played your violin softly on quiet, rainy evenings. Now the only otherworldly sounds you hear are off-key humming, and snores, and sighs.
November 29, 2025 at 3:16 PM
The attic creaked relentlessly when you moved in, and shrieked at odd hours. So you dusted, and painted the window so the sun splintered into rainbows, and played your violin softly on quiet, rainy evenings. Now the only otherworldly sounds you hear are off-key humming, and snores, and sighs.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
Don't send your coins to the wealthy trolls that live in high castles this holiday season.
Shop in your local forest and share them with the witches, goblins, and other moss draped horrors that create sparks of light in the darkness.
Shop in your local forest and share them with the witches, goblins, and other moss draped horrors that create sparks of light in the darkness.
November 28, 2025 at 5:01 PM
Don't send your coins to the wealthy trolls that live in high castles this holiday season.
Shop in your local forest and share them with the witches, goblins, and other moss draped horrors that create sparks of light in the darkness.
Shop in your local forest and share them with the witches, goblins, and other moss draped horrors that create sparks of light in the darkness.
After a heavy snow, you find a bundle on your back step: bark pieces carved with recipes in shaky writing, and a coin as large as your palm. The yard and beyond are oddly silent, but when you pick up the coin, you hear a faint chorus of cheers. You laugh softly; looks like you’re baking today.
November 28, 2025 at 3:11 PM
After a heavy snow, you find a bundle on your back step: bark pieces carved with recipes in shaky writing, and a coin as large as your palm. The yard and beyond are oddly silent, but when you pick up the coin, you hear a faint chorus of cheers. You laugh softly; looks like you’re baking today.
You go still as, distantly through the trees, you hear the low bellow of a winter elk. The trees here are scarred with antler rubbings, tufted with clumps of ruddy fur. You collect a pocketful to add to the charm you’re brewing at home, for a secret door in the dark, that leads to light and warmth.
November 27, 2025 at 3:24 PM
You go still as, distantly through the trees, you hear the low bellow of a winter elk. The trees here are scarred with antler rubbings, tufted with clumps of ruddy fur. You collect a pocketful to add to the charm you’re brewing at home, for a secret door in the dark, that leads to light and warmth.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
You realize too late when the trees go silent, and you stop, heart beating far too fast. It takes a few minutes before you see the first wren, its one eye like flint as it watches you. Then you see dozens, all with crooked wings or broken beaks, silent as a corpse. As one, their eyes twitch to you.
November 26, 2025 at 2:56 PM
You realize too late when the trees go silent, and you stop, heart beating far too fast. It takes a few minutes before you see the first wren, its one eye like flint as it watches you. Then you see dozens, all with crooked wings or broken beaks, silent as a corpse. As one, their eyes twitch to you.
You realize too late when the trees go silent, and you stop, heart beating far too fast. It takes a few minutes before you see the first wren, its one eye like flint as it watches you. Then you see dozens, all with crooked wings or broken beaks, silent as a corpse. As one, their eyes twitch to you.
November 26, 2025 at 2:56 PM
You realize too late when the trees go silent, and you stop, heart beating far too fast. It takes a few minutes before you see the first wren, its one eye like flint as it watches you. Then you see dozens, all with crooked wings or broken beaks, silent as a corpse. As one, their eyes twitch to you.
You wouldn’t have seen it without the sun’s low-angled light, but there’s a smooth circle of ice with a deep imprint of your necklace. It cracks open when you brush a finger over it, revealing a small wooden ring inscribed with snowdrops. It fits perfectly on your thumb, and you accept the trade.
It's not until you've bundled inside, stomped ice from boots and burned lips on hot chocolate, that you realize you lost your necklace out there in the drifts. You suit back up, search in the waning light, but the necklace remains lost. What do you find instead?
#TinyTalesTuesday #WritingPrompt
#TinyTalesTuesday #WritingPrompt
November 25, 2025 at 5:52 PM
You wouldn’t have seen it without the sun’s low-angled light, but there’s a smooth circle of ice with a deep imprint of your necklace. It cracks open when you brush a finger over it, revealing a small wooden ring inscribed with snowdrops. It fits perfectly on your thumb, and you accept the trade.
Iron sewn into a cuff is common sense these days, after the Folk got greedy with a few too many travellers, but there's a second part to that charm they've managed to keep hidden: Offer up your oldest gold and safely walk the Raven's Road.
November 25, 2025 at 3:12 PM
Iron sewn into a cuff is common sense these days, after the Folk got greedy with a few too many travellers, but there's a second part to that charm they've managed to keep hidden: Offer up your oldest gold and safely walk the Raven's Road.
It took a full season and your best tin of buttons, but you finally gained the trust of the Hob that lives in your garden. Most folk try to steal the gold they collect, but you're just happy to have another pair of hands for weeding.
November 24, 2025 at 3:15 PM
It took a full season and your best tin of buttons, but you finally gained the trust of the Hob that lives in your garden. Most folk try to steal the gold they collect, but you're just happy to have another pair of hands for weeding.
Reposted by Moon Eyed Fox
This little mouse from linocut artist Carolyn Howse still needs a home! If you’d like a hand-written, bespoke fox drabble mailed to you in this card, follow @moon-eyed-fox.bsky.social and comment if you’d prefer something cozy or creepy. Open worldwide, repost if you can ❤️
November 23, 2025 at 3:43 PM
This little mouse from linocut artist Carolyn Howse still needs a home! If you’d like a hand-written, bespoke fox drabble mailed to you in this card, follow @moon-eyed-fox.bsky.social and comment if you’d prefer something cozy or creepy. Open worldwide, repost if you can ❤️
The copper kettle shrieks, and you wrap the handle with a thick dishrag to pour a thin stream of boiling water into the teapot. It takes a few moments, but soon the glaze on the pot shifts to a cheerful green. So it's to be mint tea today, then.
November 23, 2025 at 1:47 PM
The copper kettle shrieks, and you wrap the handle with a thick dishrag to pour a thin stream of boiling water into the teapot. It takes a few moments, but soon the glaze on the pot shifts to a cheerful green. So it's to be mint tea today, then.