In the dusty town of San Isidro, where the sun baked the cobblestones and the sea’s salty breath clung to the air, lived a boy named Pepito. Barefoot and clad in a patched shirt, he roamed the market, selling fish from a rickety cart. His voice, sharp and hopeful, called out, “Fresh fish! Caught this morning!” But his pockets stayed empty, his meals meager, and his dreams small—except for one: every Holy Week, the grand church at the town’s heart held a retreat, a sacred gathering where God’s word echoed through candlelit halls. Pepito longed to attend, but the entrance fee was a fortune he could never scrape together.
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Tom: Superb issue Raoul. I started reading and got on the songs , all favorites and w...
Larry: Fall is my favorite season. Probably October. I raked leaves for money when I wa...
Ed: Very personal and profound narrative about death. Love the JFK quotation. And, o...
Heather: What happened to Charlie Kirk is such a horrific thing. I can only hope that goo...