Astral Sabbath

Date: 10/27/2025

That familiar sound of industrial scraping — metal on metal — an explosion in my ears. My whole body is vibrating like I've swallowed a jackhammer. Am I having a seizure? I think. No. It’s my time to take flight. My gateway into the astral realm. Excitement fizzes inside me like a bottle of Coke on the brink of POP. Steady on now, Amanda. Stay calm. My soul body feels so heavy as it peels from its human skin. It’s like stripping off a wetsuit full of syrup. It takes me a moment to stand, to get my bearings — ghost legs on jelly ground. But once I’m out, I start bouncing on the bed like a kid at a sleepover. The room is pitch black, save for a sliver of light that casts the outline of my sleeping body — peaceful, unaware. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. “I need some music!” I suddenly think, grabbing a pair of earbuds that just happen to be lying around. (Thank you, Dream Physics.) I pop them in, and the room fills with a fuzzy, slow, molten guitar riff — something I half-recognise, though I can’t quite place it. Bored now. Let’s press on. I shoot up through the bedroom window and into the night. It’s like I’ve hit a turbo button — the wind rips through my hair, my heart thunders with freedom. I loop around the whole town and back again, exhilarated. Bored again. What next? I swoop down into another dream — someone else’s, I think. A foreign land. “I want to go outside this universe,” I tell the air, or whoever’s on shift at the cosmic helpdesk. Something hears me — or mistranslates — because I’m dropped into a futuristic undersea city. Hoverboards glide past, neon lights shimmer. Giants float beside mermaid-like beings with gills that ripple like silk curtains. I swim among them, awestruck. Then I hear her: naughty Amanda. “Let’s have some fun,” she whispers. I find a quiet lobby, revolving doors swooshing and decide — purely in the name of scientific research — to test which is more pleasurable: female or male masturbation. So I try both. Just as I’m getting into it, a crowd of dream pedestrians strolls by, completely oblivious to my mid-wank enlightenment. Phew. Curiosity takes over, and I follow them, shape-shifting into a random passerby — an innocent woman just minding her own business. Her skin fits well enough, though I can’t resist one adjustment: bigger boobs. I give them a squeeze, like a proud teen with a new toy. After a while (thanks, ADHD brain), I lose interest and wander into a tropical-themed restaurant where monkeys roam across tables like drunk waiters. I pick one up — it morphs into a hairy hog. It weighs a bloody ton. I drop it onto someone’s dinner with a splat. No one even notices. “Am I invisible?” I think. Feeling cocky, I climb onto a table and start dancing and smashing glasses like I’m at Greek wedding. Feeling naughtier still, I pour a bottle of wine over a bald man’s head. Just for giggles. Turns out, I’m not invisible. He’s fuming — eyes bulging, veins popping. “Run!” someone shouts. “Unless you want to sleep with him!” I glance at the hog-man. Nope. Hard pass. I sprint out into the street, legs pumping, adrenaline buzzing. I spot a guy on a bike and yell, “Can I ride on the back?” He hesitates, then nods. Down the hill we fly, air slicing through my hair. I hug him tighter — maybe too tight — and my hand drifts, accidentally (mostly), to his crotch. He giggles nervously but keeps pedalling. We end up at his place. He pushes me against a wall, eyes glinting. Oh, that escalated fast. Then he disappears into another room and calls me into the bathroom. He’s drawn a bath — candles, bubbles, rose petals. Dreamy. Romantic, even. Except… in the flickering candlelight, I don’t quite fancy him anymore. A bit too late for that; he’s dangling his ‘carrot’ in my face. Small, bent, and frankly tragic. “On second thoughts,” I mumble, “I think I’ll get out.” He looks wounded but it’s soon forgotten. He’s now busy showing me his photography — sprawled out on a desktop like certificates of pride. It’s good. Beautiful, even. I feel guilty for being so superficial. But then — disaster. I need the toilet. Badly. I stumble into a public loo. Every stall is overflowing with moss and single turds shaped like commas. Each cubicle a repeat crime scene. “For fuck’s sake,” I groan. A cleaner scrubs the floor nearby. “Any clean toilets?” I ask. “Upstairs. To your right,” she grunts. Then adds, with venom: “And take your own bog roll.” I blink. “I don’t have my own bog roll,” I mutter. “Funnily enough I don’t stockpile toilet rolls in my pockets.” So, naturally, I grab heaps of blue cleaning roll instead. Reams and reams of the stuff. “That’ll learn her,” I smirk to myself. Upstairs, the toilets are equally chaotic — but less mossy. I queue, then finally sit and relieve myself. Pure, glorious release. When I emerge, there’s a queue to get out. I start pushing through, rubbing shoulders with other impatient souls. And then I see him. Ozzy Osbourne. I freeze. Starstruck. He looks at me, all eyeliner and electricity, and says, “Y’alright, love?” That’s when I hear it — the song from earlier, swelling in my ears, distant yet familiar. The guitar ripples slow and liquid. Cosmic. Haunting. Planet Caravan. Ozzy’s voice drifts through the air, low and otherworldly: “We sail through endless skies…” The dream begins to dissolve — the walls, the crowd, the light — until all that’s left is the music. I wake up with my heart pounding, bladder full to bursting, and Ozzy still murmuring in my ears: “…the moon, our guide.” I lie there, smiling into the dark, half in this world, half still adrift in the next.