Prompt: The sun, a weary orange orb battling smog, dipped behind the Hollywood Hills, casting long shadows across Skid Row. Maria, her face etched with the worry lines of a young woman carrying more than her years, clutched a bundle of recycled wool blankets close to her chest. Inside, nestled like a tiny ember against the chill December air, lay her newborn son.

Prompt: the panther. As he paces in cramped circles, over and over, the movement of his powerful soft strides is like a ritual dance around a center in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Prompt: The Panther. His vision, from the constantly passing bars, has grown so weary that it cannot hold anything else. It seems to him there are a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.