There was nothing he could have done. Nothing

A man stood on a ridge.

The ridge looked out over a vista.

The vista was of many colors.

The colors were beautiful.

The man said, "ah,"

"You colors."

The colors said nothing.

It was getting on towards that time of day.

The man turned back from the vista, and made his way back down the path.

Suddenly – a sound filled the air.

It was a sound the man had heard before.

He was able to instantly identify it.

He took off at a run down the path, sliding at the turns of the switchbacks, guiding his headlong trajectory by pushing off trees on either side.

The sound had filled him with an emotion.

That emotion was fear.

He had to get back to the cabin.

Something had gone wrong.

The sound had been the sound of something going off.

The thing that had gone off was a firearm.

It sounded like a firearm.

The man was pretty sure someone had discharged a firearm.

He had heard firearms before.

This sounded like one of those.

As he barreled down the mostly-straight final stretch of the path, caroming off the odd tree and lengthening his stride, the man's eye caught that of a bird standing by a pine.

The bird was a sawbill.

A hooded merganser, if the man was not mistaken.

It was a long way from the river, the man mused as he ran on.

The grade leveled as the clearing came into view, with the cabin at its far end.

The man was sprinting now, flat-out.

There had been no further sound of gunshot, no scream – as the man closed the distance, he saw no sign of struggle.

Breathing hard, he prayed he was not too late.

Suddenly as he closed to within twenty yards of the humble backwoods cabin, it transformed in an eyeblink into a majestic, many-turreted, crenellated castle that looked as if it could have been sculpted from fondant. Banners streamed from every turret. Birds erupted into song at the sight.

"God damn it!" erupted the man.

"I forgot."

"It's Fiction Friday."

"None of this has been real."