The Quite Possibly Near Death of Hurol Davelrish
Copyright 2011 Ian Kraft
All of his life, he was falling. But into or onto what, he never had any idea until he was lead deeper into the chamber of light.
“Hurol,” I shouted, “My name is Hurol, pronounced like the words ‘you’re all’ with an ‘h’ in front.”
“And Davelrish? Hurol Davelrish?”
“Yes!” I replied, shouting over the sound of the rushing air.
“Is that foreign? Are you from the Middle East or something?”
“No,” I answered, somewhat angered by the assumption, “I was born in Virginia.”
“Then where’d you get a name like that?” he shouted, perhaps trying to cut the tension that was building in anticipation of what was ahead.
“I think it was one of my grandparents,” I yelled in response.
“We’re at about 13,000 feet,” he shouted back to me, dropping the subject as he looked to one of the gauges in front of him, “You better get ready.”