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Story by Adam Casalino March 7, 1936: Robert Asher wasn’t feeling well. His head was throbbing and his vision was blurred. Every subtle noise would send stabs of pain through his skull. A glass of Alka-Seltzer was foaming beside his hand. He absentmindedly rubbed the welt on the side of…

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Story by Adam Casalino June 1, 1952: Jonathan Lewis paced back and forth in his room. For the fifth time that morning, he checked himself in the mirror. The flower in his lapel was crooked. His hair wasn’t right. The suit felt baggy, then too tight. There wasn’t enough air…

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Story by Adam Casalino October 2, 1965: Robert Asher was on hold. Easy listening music, meant to sooth the caller, was playing on the other end. The rumba sounded like it was coming through a crushed cigarette box. Asher was not one for rumba music, or dancing for that matter. …

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Story by Adam Casalino Robert Asher was thrown off the back of the truck. They didn’t even have the decency to stop. He sat in the snow as the vehicle rumbled away at top speed. It took the corner down the mountain a bit too hard and nearly flipped. The…
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Story by Adam Casalino They stood in a circle of moonlight in a small forest clearing. The trees surrounded them like silent sentinels, guardians of this one precious moment. He was tall and pale of skin. The glowing moon shined in his eyes. She stood, shivering in his arms—not because…
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Story by Adam Casalino I begrudgingly stepped into the subway car. It smelled—bad. A homeless person had spent the night on one of the benches. Most of the idiots in the car stayed at the other end. The train lurched forward and I grabbed onto the bar so I wouldn’t…