Microstories about famous people
Flow Of Life
Constantinople was the largest market in the galaxy. Not much different than the forgotten empire's jumbled assembly of cheap and luxury, of spices and rugs, of sweat and perfumes, of poor men and wealthy men.
The flow of people through the passageways felt like a fluid feeding the bazaar.
Inside, the shopkeeper was trying to haggle over the merchandise, but was getting wary that he could lose the trade.
He knew very well the man in front of him, the son of an affluent carpet maker in Tabriz, Gharegozlou, so he tried one last time "You know what, just throw a cryptokitty in, and we have a deal for your Persian rugs!"
The customer looked agitated and said "Friend, I cannot give away a fortune!"
Summer never felt so torrid in the metaverse, and nothing in the boat could help keep the digital sun away. Even the insects were too tired to fly over the river, or perhaps the gas was too costly.
But the gods appeared to smile to the gemini, as they were driven by the coach's sharp-tongued words.
"You're too slow! The boat is not gonna win on its own! Somebody has to do the rowing! You must work harder, not merely imagine yourselves magically going through some sort of nifty gateway that's just waiting to propel the Winklevosses on the podium!"
Two tired eyes, just above the mud, were piercing through the fine mist that was falling from the gray-blue sky, fighting to see into the dusk. The stubble and the dirt made his face look rougher than it really was. The critics, watching from afar, were standing in the soft rain just to see him fail.
"Vaynerchuk!" yelled a voice from above, covering the dim clouds with a large rain hat, "What are you doing this way? You're not gonna make it! Get out of the trenches and go the way the others did. All recruits are anxiously waiting to be your friends in veectory."
He was right. It was tough and the rifle wasn't making things easier.
"What's life without a challenge, sergeant? One step in front of the other, and I'll make it. I'll get to the destination and take the top shot of the day!"
The sergeant showed what civilians might wrongly call concern. "You can barely hold it together, fren. Go see doctor Vand when you reach the ivory tower."
"Did you hear that Beeple just sold his 'First 10000 days' collage for a billion dollars?"
"Fuuuck, gone are the days when he could make a living with NFTs."
At the turn of the century, The Enterprise was a booming conglomerate. Cars, starships, robots and AI made the world move like fluid. But all the turmoil was far away from home.
The sun was coming up across the misty field, warming the air and making breakfast on the terrace look like a good idea in this early day of spring.
In the distance, within an otherwise boring landscape, he could see the sparkling dots of the trucks on Highway 420. A few dust devils disappeared into the ether.
The doge was chasing butterflies through patches of wet grass, stopping from time to time, pointing up its elongated snout and sprinkled nose to smell the fresh air, while shrewdly pretending to not be watching a tweeting bird.
The bot pointed at the Robo-T that was serving the breakfast, and remarked "This model is optimus."
Musk looked sideways, munching on his thoughts. "Maybe", he said, while casually looking at a new sunrise on Mars.
Florence, 1439, the Night For Troubadours. Alamo Heights felt abandoned at this late hour. A flock of birds flew across the bright Moon. In the shadows of the street, two dogs started snooping around for something to eat, but ended up doing it doggy style.
In the empty silence of the dark, the cold moonlight was lighting the crest from the iron gate of the villa. GM, Gruppo Medici, the patrons of arts. Through the windows, anyone passing on the street would've seen the orange candle light bringing the stucco to life.
The warm summer night made it possible to have a long dinner on the patio, filled with delightful pizza and its freshly baked smell. Giuliano was in charge of the wine and pineapple pie. The dean and the professor from the art school were there. The dean was sifting through some drawings, looking for the next big artist. The professor was in charge of lighting the yard with floating balloons. Bianca, the granddaughter with an unusual voice, was the soul of the party. Cath had just returned from a painting trip in the southland mountains, and was sitting awkwardly in a corner.
A luxury carriage, coming all the way from Snoopverse, delivered a guest at the doorsteps of the house. The small crest on the door, an X and a pigeon, reminded him to greet the crazy genius with the charm of a nephew, who was claiming to be from the future, and who built the carriage and was driving it. He was calling it a "Tesla". They said to each other the word that made them feel part of something greater than life, "GM!"
Once inside the villa, the guest wasted no words "Son, music is your legacy."
Cozomo was torn between following the old ways and his new passion for the visual arts. He dreamt of making fortunes and spending them as a patron of beauty.
"Keepin' it real, Let me just deal, In art of the feel, And my legacy be, In years to come, Paintings on glass, Like church's stained glass."
"Medici can be, A name to foresee, The fortunes to come, And spending them on, As patrons of stun."
"From little I come, But don't call me done, Till I will achieve, My famous reprieve, In Nifties believe!"