Publications – Jennifer Hudak

2024

The Stolen Sabbath

The Cosmic Background

Each Friday my mother unfolded the sabbath from where it had been hiding all week, snapped it out like a fresh sheet, and draped it over the weekend. I could never quite catch her doing it; one moment, the kitchen was just the kitchen, and the next, it was sacred. She told me not to think about it too much. She told me just to let it happen. She said that one day it would be my turn, and she’d teach me where the sabbath came from, how to unfurl it and smooth it out, and then how to fold it back up again and tuck it back in its place. But I was not a patient child:

My mother told me this, too.

The Colonist

Trollbreath, Issue 2

I've got a story for you. And I'll let you know right now, it's the absolute truth. You're probably gonna think I'm shitting you, but that's okay. I'll tell you anyway, and after you've heard it, maybe you'll change your mind.

The Stories I Tell Myself (essay)

Apparition Lit Issue 28

Every morning when I wake up, I shuffle my oracle deck and spread three cards out on my bedspread. This is a new routine for me; I received the deck for my birthday, and I still have to look up each card in the accompanying booklet to discover its meaning. I like the ritual of it. The cards, smooth and slippery; the drawings that suggest more than they declare. The way the cards nudge me, gently, to acknowledge how I’m really feeling about the events of my life—my anxieties, my internal roadblocks, my deepest wishes. The latent brought to the surface. The mess of my mind given tidy, understandable form.

I do not believe my cards predict the future. But sometimes, in spite of myself, I can't help but sense larger forces at work. Certain cards want to be pulled; they make my fingertips tingle. Other say, move on, keep shuffling. Part of me--the part that's still just waking up, still fuzzy with dreams and nightmares--believes the universe is telling me something, each morning, here in my bed, if only I would listen.

The Witch Trap

Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 48

These floors, original to the house, have witnessed the turn of two centuries. The shoe concealed beneath them is older. Laces replaced, soul thrice mended, the shoe still bears the impression of the big toe that for years pressed against the worn upper. Now, it rests mateless between floor joists, a curiosity for spiders and mice. No longer a shoe, but a summons.

The witch smells what has been hidden--leather, dirt, and sweat--and cannot help herself. She makes her way down the chimney, into the walls, beneath the floor, and into the shoe, expecting to find human flesh inside. Once trapped, the witch beats immaterial fists inside of the toe box. She wails for the sky, for her horned god, for the crescent moon above. But it's no use. Eventually, she fades. The shoe absorbs the witch, becoming more than what it was.