"Smoking is a Southern thing. The soft hazy feeling of gentility can only be described by an association with this region." The basement was dark. The light of a cigarrette smouldered between them.
"You are so full of shit."
"Hardly. You have an obligation to believe so because your upbringing has taught you that all ideas which rely on a person's reputation to be true are frivilous and outdated. You, for instance, believe that my emphasis on the sanctity of breaking bread is pointless." Candlelight danced on the board in their laps and illuminated the letters that ran downward slant in an overly ominous fashion. They were waiting once again for that most powerful of hours to begin their sacred ritual. A long silence filled the air and forced them to sip at their Kool-aid and awkwardly watch the cheap candles flicker. As the time crept nearer, the atmosphere took on a persona, such an oppressive nature that it began to overpower them.
"This is a bad idea."
"Scared already?" The dog sitting beside her lifted its head to stare with half-interest at a shadow on the floor. There were so many haunting the room that one was barely noteworthy to superior human minds.
"Some forces in this world are too much to be controlled by my will. There are things like death and suffering that I don't have a damn bit of say in whether they happen or not. It is presumptuous and sinful to try to communicate thoughts beyond the veil of the grave. What if we channel the agony of someone fated for Hell? What if we turn God against us with this sorcery? It is blasphemous to think we are capable of handling such pain outside of God's blessing."
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