I tap the keys energetically, my fingers sore from their prolonged usage. But I dare not give them rest. The flow of ideas is too strong and if I don't put my paddle in to steer I'll be swept to the bank, bumped up onto the shore, and it will take a mighty shove to get me back into the water. I continue writing, my brow furrowed, a pencil clenched between my lips even though I only ever use a pencil for plot outlines and character sketches. It keeps me focused, though, as if I am biting a bullet, ignoring the pain in my fingers. Every once in a while, I make a small noise, something between a grunt and a laugh, pleased with my progress. No one is home. Not yet. The kids got off school at three and should be coming through the door any minute. Terry, my husband, had an eight to four shift today, so he, too, will return soon. I wince and keep writing, hoping the flow runs dry before they arrive; if not, I'll bank suddenly and more than probably be thrown from my little magician's ship. And then, covered with bruises from rolling among the rocks, I will have to rest. And I will miss whatever headway I might've made today.

I get up without taking my eyes from the computer screen and close the door to 'the tower' with my foot. The tower is the name my children have given the cubby hole beneath our attic stairs; all that exists here is a computer, an extension cord, about half a dozen daddy long legs, and a plethora of Rapunzel jokes. When the door is closed, it is supposed to mean that I don't want to be disturbed, but it seems I am the only one who knows this. The kids must arrive while I'm enveloped in a scene. I don't know they're home until Ellen, my oldest at sixteen, opens the door to the tower. I start, gasping, as if breaking the surface of a pool. The pencil falls from my mouth.

"Please, Ellen, knock. I'm writing."

Ellen flips a lock of straight blond hair over an ear and shrugs, closing long-lashed eyelids over beautiful green eyes, as green as mine. "Sorry, Mom. But I don't have anything to wear to the theater tonight, and it's Ethan who's taking me out."

I sigh, my eyes flicking from my daughter's face to the cliff-hanging moment she disturbed. The heart-pounding atmosphere is slipping away with every passing second. Ethan is my daughter's current boyfriend. I frown inwardly, wondering whatever happened to Tom. His uncle had been a writer and he, with his nose ring and bandanna, had understood as no teenager ever had before what the needs of a writer were. Despite his somewhat unwholesome appearance, he'd been the first boyfriend of hers I'd actually approved of. "I just did a laundry on Monday, El."

"I know. But I wore my beige sweater yesterday and I want it for tonight. There's enough laundry for one load of whites."

I sigh again. "Ellen, why don't you do the load then?"

Ellen looks surprised. And so she should be, I guess. I've never asked her, or any of my children, to wash the laundry, or cook supper, or do the dishes, or dust the furniture. The only thing I get after them about is cleaning their rooms, but I usually end up doing that, too. Terry says I shouldn't be so lenient, that I should let them do it themselves, let them learn some responsibility. But I am a perfectionist, almost to the point of being obsessive compulsive, with a need to do it right. And if you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself. Perhaps it's a flaw of mine, but, aside from its downsides, perfectionism is what I believe makes me such a good writer. I am never satisfied with anything I've written, and so I strive to be better. I strive to write something good enough to touch someone, to change someone. To change the world is my goal, but even a blazing fire has to start with one small spark. One can only change the world by changing what people believe, and that has to start with one person.

"Mom, I...I can't. I've got lots of homework."

Lots of homework. I pick up my pencil from where it landed on my computer table and put in back into my mouth. I wonder idly which part of her homework involves the trip to the theater. "I'll do a wash before supper," I mutter around the pencil.

I'm not looking, but I know Ellen has a grin on her face. "Thanks, Mom." She leaves before I can ask her to close the door. I get up from my chair and close it, praying to the fates for a break from interruptions.

I sit back down to my computer, hoping that the abruptness of the interference hasn't broken my concentration irreparably for the day. I read over my last paragraph and, with a grunt/laugh, continue slowly from where I'd left off.

Orin sat down heavily on an outcropping of rock beside the gypsy wagon trail they'd been following through the forest, his body and mind weary with worry. What was he doing? He was no dragonslayer, but a mere mercenary, looking for some money to feed and clothe his ragtag band of followers. Why had he agreed to kill this accursed beast? He ran a gloved hand over the stubble littering his chin and neck.

Thalia sat gracefully beside him, folding slim but muscular legs beneath her fraying skirt. She took his hand from him and put it to her cheek in a rare show of affection. She was so intuitive. She seemed to know his mind often when even he himself didn't know it, knowing when he needed comfort, or needed merely to be left alone. And, in cases such as this when comfort and encouragement were needed, she never made an obvious show of it, so as not to embarrass him. And he loved her for it. This was why he had agreed, he realized dimly. Because of human kindness, human love. Husbands, wives, parents, children, they were all being killed by this dragon as it wreaked its playful havoc on the towns outside of the forest. Was he not in this position, he could've well been a man in one of these towns. If Thalia was in danger while they lived there, he would want someone to fight the dragon before any evil befell her.

And so he would stand up for the weaker element. He would be a dragonslayer when the time required it of him.

He took his hand gently from Thalia and she looked up at him with deep violet eyes that had ever captured his attention. He saw understanding there, and the strength mirrored in his own gaze, the strength he would need. A slight smile graced his normally somber features. And he withdrew his sword from the scabbard on his back and proceeded to sharpen it against the rocks he sat upon...

I jump in shock as the door opens unexpectedly, the pencil clattering to the table top. I turn my head to look over my shoulder. Terry stands in the doorway with one hand on the knob, his tie loosened around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt undone. I want to scold him for forgetting to knock and almost giving me a coronary, but he is the one to speak first.

"Hon, do you know where my stapler is?"

I think for a moment as if I should know, but then shake my head. I've never even used his stapler. "Have you asked the kids?"

His silence answers my question. I wonder why he came to me first considering that I am probably the least likely in the house to have seen it last. I stand from my chair and brush past him, going to the top of the stairs. "Kids!" I call down. "Have either of you seen your father's stapler?"

There's a momentary pause while everyone thinks about this. And then I hear Gregory, my youngest at twelve, pipe up. "Yeah, I used it this morning to staple my title page to my history notes. D'ya wanna see what I drew?"

"Maybe later," I answer. "Where'd you leave it, Greg?"

"Um, I think it's in the den."

I gesture grandly at the staircase. Terry gives me an acknowledging nod and then descends. Before he's reached the bottom, though, I do something I've never done before. "Ter, would it be possible for you to do a laundry? Ellen wants a shirt washed for tonight."

Terry stops in the stairwell and glances back up at me, and although his expression hasn't changed, I'm left wondering if he's thinking my body's been taken over by a dictating alien.

"Well, actually I've got a few forms to fill out for work."

Normally, this would be excuse enough. But for some reason I am unable to let it go. The flow of my ideas is pushing me on, trying to dislodge my boat from the shore. "Couldn't you do that after supper?"

Terry stares at me as if I've just asked him to eat a live scorpion. And then, after a moment, he blinks and regains his composure. "I guess I could, but I had a real mess of a day...and there's a game on tonight that I would really like to watch."

My anchor falls from the boat, mooring me securely to the bank. The current is not strong enough to move me any further. "Okay, Terry."

He nods, and then, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer than necessary as if he's worried about me, he continues on his way down the stairs.

I feel odd as I walk back into the tower, intent on saving my progress and turning the computer off. But, once my eyes fall on the screen, I feel the anchor being yanked from the mud of the shore. I sit down in my chair and pick up my pencil, putting it between my lips resolutely.

Thalia stood and watched Orin sharpen his sword, his tired muscles flexing beneath the strain he was putting behind each stroke. The cave of the dragon couldn't be more than a day's journey from their present location; she could smell sulfur on the wind that leaked through the canopy of the trees down to the forest floor. And that meant that in the next day or two, he would be facing what could perhaps mean death for him. She didn't let her worry show in her expression. She would be strong for him.

But she only had so much strength. He would need to maintain the strength he had also...

Thalia took the sword from Orin suddenly. He glanced up at her in confusion. "Thalia?"

"Rest." Before he could reply, she walked away, over to where the remainder of the group sat around a fire pit. Over to Vernis, perhaps the strongest of their group. He had once been a blacksmith. He looked up as she neared, his eyes piercing beneath the bushy hedge of his eyebrows, his mouth grim amidst the copse of a beard. She held out the sword, laying it across her palms. "Please, Vernis. Sharpen this for Orin."

Vernis frowned slightly, the area above the ridge of his nose wrinkling. "Why? Isn't Orin capable of doing it himself?" He shifted his seating, turning his face from her. "Besides, we've all done our share today. Every man should take care of himself."

Thalia frowned, her expression darkening. Vernis and the other men were ignoring her, passing around jugs of ale poured from one of the barrels in the wagon. Just as Vernis was about to take a swig, Thalia moved the sword to one hand and grabbed the vessel out of his grip. He glanced up at her in surprise, but the surprise turned to irritation after a moment.

"Thalia," he warned.

"You are just as capable of sharpening a sword as Orin, if not more so." With a deft movement, she dumped the ale over his head. He widened both his eyes and his mouth as the brown liquid ran down his face. "And you are not the one going out to slay a dragon." She dropped the sword to the ground at her feet and turned on her heel...

I stand swiftly from my chair and move quickly out into the hall. Our laundry hamper is no more than a wicker basket I'd picked up one year from a lawn sale for a dollar. There is indeed enough in there for one load of whites. I can see Ellen's beige sweater peeking out from under a dirty pair of boxers. I heft the basket and start down the stairs. Terry looks up from the kitchen table where he is addressing some form or another for work. From the living room, Ellen glances up from the magazine she's been reading and Greg looks up from his video game. They watch me until I reach the bottom.

Perhaps they're watching me out of boredom. Perhaps it's because I'm finally making my appearance downstairs. Or maybe it's because of the mysterious smile I have on my face.

Still smiling, I look around at them. Each one wears an expression of disconcerted expectation. Without ceasing to smile, I turn the basket upside down in my hands. The laundry falls out onto the floor.

"I am the dragonslayer," I say loud enough for them all to hear. And then, dropping the basket, I walk purposefully back up the stairs, preparing myself for the journey of my life in my little magician's ship.