The Buck & Buntline Inn is a Social Commentary/Virtual Lounge site - with a Northern Irish Pub-like moniker (hence the Green Look!) that spoofs on two of the weapons used in the Tate-LaBianca Manson Family murders: the Buntline Revolver & the Buck Knife - with in-house barmen, Burb & her Guest Authors, serving your Cocktails with a wee bit of insight and wit...or just drivel...depending on how loaded we were when we wrote our last post! If you like our Lounge, click the pink diamond "FOLLOW B3!!!" button located just below this marquee and join via one of our social media gadgets, and while we're fixing your drink, check out our SiteMap for a full listing of our posts as well! Thanks for visiting B3 and may your Cocktail Glass never be empty!

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Sunday, August 5, 2012


Alone-Coffin-Death-SocialCommentary 1

There is only room enough for me, it was never meant to hold more than one, I know that.

The darkness…no, that’s the wrong word, the blackness, when my eyes are full to the brim with just black, no more room for any other anything.

Hard to breathe in here, I sense that, so I breathe more shallow, well, I think I am, but the fear, I wonder, worry, is the fear making me breathe more?

I feel my hands, they’re cold, but my nails are long, that’s good, I might need them later, you know, if I panic, wanting out from a place that I know I must stay.

The padding, all soft, satiny, I think it’s supposed to make me feel better. I can’t see the colour so I imagine it as ice-blue…yes…ice-blue…wish I could see the colour.

At first, when I found myself in this place, this reality, I just laid still, oh, so very still, the fear of doing anything, fear that I might cry from the fear, and then, what do I do if the crying makes me want to scream and I can’t stop? Nobody will come to my aid, I know that, this is my place, I have to be here, he said, so no, no crying for me, the screaming that would follow would be so in vain.

After a time, once hours have gone by and I start to accept my lot, I begin to slowly move my hands about, feeling how close the walls are to me. It doesn’t matter that everything I touch feels satiny smooth, the blackness never abates and I can tell I can’t move my legs, well, not much, anyways, maybe turn on my side, that’s a choice, not much of a choice though.

No, I’m here, inside, and I have no idea how long, he didn’t say, he probably wouldn’t have said even if he knew. I don’t think he wanted me here, necessarily, but here I am, all the same.

It’s a time of transition, I know that, the abyss before the “landing” of somewhere else. Only suicide is a permanent fix to a temporary problem. This problem IS temporary so no suicide for me, well, not yet.

My back is cold, aching, the damp seeping in, despite the padding, think I’m dressed in something flimsy…whoever thought that was a good idea has never been here, I can tell you that. Even my feet are cold, yet shoes I have, my fingers, my shoulders, even my ability to think, slowing, from the cold.

My heart is beating, I can hear it, everything is easy to hear when you’re all alone, still, quiet, isolated. I feel my stomach, it still seems warm, well, warmish, but I feel all of me is going into a dying state, can’t talk, even if there were people around, couldn’t talk, even then.

I hear the “crack” contractions of my confines as night falls, the warmth of the day seeping away…you’d not know it but it’s the dampness, maybe from tears that come without even crying, more than the blackness, that gets you the most.

Good thing I’m not really Closter phobic; although I am trying hard to not notice the sudden and immense change in my state of being, my locale, because if I did, then the panic, the screams, and no one at all to help me now.

No. Best to wait. Lie still. Behave. Breathe shallow. And wait.

Maybe someone will dig me up and give me life anew.

Living inside one’s coffin when not actually dead…not as nice as you’d think.

Alone, Coffin, Death, Social Commentary


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