Here's my weekly 300-word or less flash fiction piece based on this prompt:
Dad knows my spell level like the back of his hand. He knows I can’t fly or even levitate, yet. That’s why he stranded me here on this stupid floating rock. I’m not a kid anymore! I’m two hundred and forty-seven years old, for Goodness sake. And still he treats me like a child! OK, so maybe I wasn’t supposed to be casting come-hither spells at Jonale. But I’ve been trying to get his attention for decades. How else could I get him to notice me?
Yes, and that love potion I slipped in his coffee at breakfast may have been a little heavy on the newt toes, which tipped it more to the lust side than the romantic starry-eyed, flowers and chocolates side. It’s a damn shame it didn’t kick in until he had gone to shape-shifting class. How was I to know that Demisthene was his lab partner? At least she’ll have a story to tell her broodmates. It was supposed to be me, damnit!
So here I sit, stranded alone, grounded for two years! So I can “contemplate the consequences of my mistakes.” What BS. I know what mistake I made. I should have trimmed the claws on that newt toe!