This is a sad story, really. 😦 😦 😦
Prompt: Imaginary Friend
The dreaded words were near: Happy Birthday. Everyone in the N.S.I.F. (Not So Imaginary Friends) told stories of that horrible age: 8. When we were truly gone. Retired, really imaginary, forgotten. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I scrolled through memories on my computer, my large green hands leaving a sticky residue on the keys. I was the ideal I. F. for a boy: Snake tail, slimy, booger green, bear-like hands, everything. But soon I would be nothing more then, well, nothing. Every I.F. tried to stop time, so that we wouldn’t fade away. But it was the same every time, it never worked. One by one everyone disappeared. And soon I would join them.
I cried myself to sleep each night, and on my boy’s birthday I got a feeling. I saw my hands disappear, then my tail.
“No!” I cried. But it was too late. I was gone.