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Four Ghosts and Fashion Week by Kidd Wadsworth

October 31, 2025 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as fashion, Flying, ghosts, Halloween, kidd wadsworth

Four Ghosts and Fashion Week

I love runways and bangles and color and clothes.
With a sheet and two holes, I was ghastly not Vogue.
Is that Angel and Adalyn, Ava and Mags?
All in sheets and translucent, how stunning, how Fab!

One in front, on the left, on the right, one behind,
I am grabbed. Then we fly. This is blowing my mind.
Far below, Mom is handing out chocolate-nut bars
fruity Skittles and Twix, while I’m destined for Mars.

I must think really fast. With a loud mournful sigh,
I say, “Certainly fashion has bid you goodbye.
Your pale hue needs some blue, and your aura is plain.
Don’t despair. I can help. With my skills you will reign.”

To the first, I accessorize adding a hat,
then a glimmering belt, padded bra, she’s so flat.
To the second, a skirt, and a jacket with frills.
Would it be too cliché, can I say that she kills?

With a trench, and a pout, number three is Sam Spade.
With the fourth, I go goth, a black sheet, she’s decayed.
Transformations complete. I go home. My dad’s mad.
I’m so grounded. But hey, that’s okay, cause I’m rad.

©Kidd Wadsworth

After

Some of Kidd’s Stories

AN ELEMENT OF MYSTERTY: SWEET, FUNNY, AND STRANGE TALES OF INTRIGUE

FUR, FEATHERS AND SCALES: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Animal Tales

ONCE UPON A TIME: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales for All Ages

UNTETHERED: SWEET, FUNNY, AND STRANGE TALES OF THE PARANORMAL

SEASON’S READINGS: More Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales

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THE CHOICE

September 25, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as dreams, Flying

This is a true story.

Two nights ago, I had a dream I could fly. I opened my arms wide, pulled the wind toward me and felt my feet lift off the ground. It was glorious. With my engineering-trained mind I quickly sought practical applications.

First, my husband and I went out at night—so the neighbors wouldn’t see—and I picked all of the apples, red and ripe, off the top branches, dropping them one by one into my husband’s waiting hands. Next, I inspected the flat portion of our roof. Never buy a house with a flat roof. We worry about that 10 x 10 section constantly. Then I decided to fly out to Seattle to visit my son. But about three minutes into the flight—I was traveling at approximately 10miles/hour—I realized that Seattle is 3000 miles away. That’s a 300 hour flight.

Hearing a roar overhead, I decided to fly into the clouds and hitch a ride on a passing jumbo jet.

NO!

Those things travel at 600 miles/hour. My head would get blown off.

I suppose even flying has its practical limitations.

In the final image of the dream, I was in the future and my son had a three-year-old daughter. I had volunteered to watch her for the day. As the scene opened, we were gleefully jumping on my son’s bed. Then I taught her to fly. “Open your arms, like this.” I opened my arms, “and pull the wind to yourself.” How quickly she learned.

“Flying is so much fun, Nana.”

When I woke, I immediately understood the dream. I can do the impossible. The choice is mine.

Last night, I had a second dream. I was agitated and rushed. I slipped the car into reverse, stomped down on the accelerator and backed out of the parking space so recklessly that I plowed into the car behind me one row over. Crying and distraught, I called the police and reported the accident. My silver Chevy Malibu—a huge tank of a car with bench seats and a V8—was undamaged. The next morning, again jittery and overwrought by . . . whatever . . . I backed out and hit another car. That night I hit a third vehicle in exactly the same way, this one belonging to Omar, a guide who had been helping me by showing me around town. “You totaled my car!” He grabbed his head in distress. “How am I going to get to work!”

I was taken before a judge.

“I’m so sorry. I was stupid. This is all my fault.”

She took away my driver’s license.

“I don’t know why I did this. I was just so upset and angry.”

I was sentenced to counseling. “You could have hurt someone,” she said. “When I’m satisfied you’re no longer a danger, I’ll give your license back.”

I woke. Immediately, I understood the dream. I am powerful. I can use my power to destroy things and hurt the people I love.

The choice is mine.

My power is my creativity. Most importantly my power is my writing. With my stories I can reveal truth to those who would hide from it. I can comfort the soul of a hurting person. I can unveil oppression. I can say, I understand, and I stand with you. With my stories I give my heart word-wings to fly where I cannot go. And on these wings my readers soar to longed-for futures.

Or I can ravage tender souls with hate and lust and violence.

The choice is mine.