[469] and a secret title for later

Crit link

This is a story I’ve had rotting in my Dropbox for over 10 years. I work on it from time to time when I have writers block. It’s a period piece about a traveling magician and it plays with a lot of aspects of psychology. Will I ever publish, or even finish this one? Doubtful (but not off the table so I’m keeping a few details close to the chest, so to speak). Which is exactly why I would love to hear what you have to say on this non-committal snippet, before possibly posting something more identifiable or seriously considered. Thanks

 The spirit of doubt drifted loose on the summer breeze, flipping and tumbling over its tails, light and easy. Now, many might assume doubt would be too heavy to be carried by a simple breeze, or too awkward in shape to catch flight. The truth is, doubt is flimsy. It's moth eaten, punctured like lace. Only when it finds a host to drape across does it settle into its own weight; and even then, it unfolds over time.
That's its trick, you know.  You don't feel it nest upon you.  Until it settles in your bones, knits a home under your skin, you can't detect it. And then, one day, it finally sprouts from under your flesh, leaving lines of knobby, mushroom-like lumps in its wake that cough spores into the air.  Drift loose on the breeze, little spores. You will find another home soon.
 *
 The nausea itself is not so bad. There's an almost lulling hypnosis to the churning in my stomach. If I pay close enough attention to the pattern, it's smooth, and predictable, like standing on the dock of a boat.  Or, at least, how I imagine that would feel. Being ultimately landlocked in the heart of America does not spare much room for sailing. Only once have I been on a boat.
 I plant my feet in the dust beneath me and close my eyes with a steadying breath. The music that spills from a calliope somewhere races toward me, swirling around my head in a dizzying mix of color, each note a different hue. They're sun bleached white and sleepy shades of red, with curious pops of gunmetal blue. I let them dance around my rooted form; I am a rock in their stream, stirring up their natural flow before they continue on to wherever it is that music notes drift away to. 
 When my eyes open again, the steadiness of the world around me is startlingly different from what my body feels.  My head turns light and liquid, my knees giving way beneath me.
 "Come near, folks," a disembodied voice snakes out of the shadows. I turn my fluid head in search of the owner. "Last performance for [redacted]. Three cents a ticket for a lifetime's worth of wonders!"
 I palm my hand flush against a wooden pole to my right, giving my head the chance to stop swimming. 
 Breathwork, focus on your breathwork.
 The voice belongs to a man on a soap box; he wears a long, dark blue, velvet jacket with twin tails that hang to the backs of his knees. His pants, also velvet, the same shade, are slightly tapered at the cuffs. He holds a long, thin, black cane in a gloved hand, that glints in the light as he points it my way.
 "How about you?"