Peter N. Barlowe


Peter might have died while attempting to stop a bus, just as it drove off of a cliff. Perhaps, he died running into the middle of an intersection, pushing an elderly woman out of the way of an oncoming truck at the very last moment. He could have died saving an entire shelter’s worth of puppies from a massive fire.

What if he died when his car careened off the side of the road? Could he have died when an elderly serial killer got the jump on him? Might he have died when he was attacked by a whole pack of rabid werewolves?

Maybe he died while trying to fly off of the Empire State Building. Perhaps he died a myth, with wings—stretching for the sun. Maybe he went out with a big bang, being shot out of a cannon, dressed in a sparkly star-spangled suit, arms stretched open wide, as if he wanted to hug the moon, stars falling out of the sky all around him as he plummeted.

To be honest, he wouldn’t have told you. He wouldn’t have wanted you to know if he’d gone out with a whisper while he slept peacefully. He would have had us tell you some big story, a fabulous lie, without an inkling of the truth.