Time After Time: A fake fiction novel piece.

A bit about an old fiction of mine, a scientist at a candy company that accidentally travels time and tries his darnedest to find his way back, but as quietly as he can.  The kicker of the thing was that the world looked like our familiar world of the past, but was very different, and that would become clear a bit late in the game.

He brought it off with all the elegaic precision of a two horses wagon, a kind of erratic thunder, a kind of meth addict vital that would come through like a spasm of static through the ether: he traveled time inadvertently.

Unsprung, as it were, no coils of things or air cushion--it was that kind of ramshod--like trees thundering onto the forest floor, sideways, and quite honestly, the Theory of Relativity had said something about "a really long stick" that reached past the clouds, and he was already up that, and along, high in the atmospheric strains of thought, an appreggio that coursed the air like a bolt of lightning, perhaps, somewhere in time, and then discovering himself quite backward in time, walking out of his workplace, finding suddenly all the cars were antiques and the advertisement on the billboards were quite vintage.

An obscurity of stalagtite, it was, the instrument, and some other, excited electrically, and who knew things about electromagnetic fields: he was a candy researcher, of course--and the balance would soon come to a solid equality as he was deposited some few decades behind his own time--a time when he himself was a grade school student, and that much was an object of fear, too.  Imagine a fidgety conspiratorial schizoid future version of one's self, coming to him, and blowing-up, roundly desolating all of his dreams, the younger self's dreams, of things like love and fortune, and the various glories that we barter everyday.