in which we are creative (and maybe you are, too)

A few months ago, our friend, Kari, had a birthday party. She encouraged all of us who attended to come in some kind of 70s or 80s tacky prom outfit. Because most of us at the party are actors, writers, directors, or some other type of creative storyteller, we didn’t just show up in costumes … we showed up in costumes with backstories. It’s important that you know that none of these stories — or the existence of the backstories at all — was coordinated or even encouraged. It’s just a thing that happened, because when you get a bunch of creative people together and give them an excuse to let their imaginations run wild, you just strap in and feel the gees.

I don’t have a picture of Anne and me together, but our characters were the high school senior (her) and the creep who graduated three years ago, will never move out of their small town, and is dating her because he’s a total loser creep (me). She’s looking for a way out of her parents’ house, and wants to get back at her father. They’re using each other, are doomed to end badly, and we just hope that they don’t drag any children into their dysfunction. He will get drunk and throw up on her dress before the night is over.

I mean, maybe we put a little too much into it but — wait what am I saying. We put exactly the right amount into it.

While we were at the party, Anne took this picture of me (that’s below the jump). In this picture, I am a totally different character. This guy is legitimately cool, and dates women who are age appropriate. He’s going places, just as soon as he saves enough money to get out of this town. He’s an honest man in a dishonest world, doing the best that he can. And he’s a hell of a good pool player…

Wil Wheaton Pool Table
Click to embiggen and see the original.

The outfit was a leather vest and pants, gold cuban boots, and that cotton shirt. I didn’t wear a gold chain, because I felt that would have been too much.

I know that a lot of you are incredibly creative people. So your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to photoshop this into a movie poster, album cover, VHS box, or something like that. You can host the files at Imgur or whatever, and link them here. You can submit them to the Photoshop Wil Wheaton Tumblr, too, if you want, and I’ll reblog them there.

ORrrrrrrrrrrrr, if you aren’t interested in photomanipulation, you could add to his story! That could be fun.

76 thoughts on “in which we are creative (and maybe you are, too)”

  2. That could also make for a hell of an album cover – it’s just a little too rectangular to be the ideal LP cove. Double LPs are more rectangular, but frame the subject matter horizontally, so this doesn’t have quite enough horizontal space for the inside art for a double LP – and you don’t frame your art so you turn the LP sideways because then you risk having one of the records slide out.

    However, this is 100 percent perfect for a movie poster – either as-is with the text and mock-up logo right justified, or in an interior frame with the logo below the picture (with the mockup cast), and the tagline right justified in the open space.

    (pause)

    I put waaaaaay too much thought into this.

    1. I feel like you put exactly the right amount of thought into it.

      If I had the skills and time, I’d create a square version by mapping the edges to extend them as seamlessly as possible.

      2. Unblock the block @yungv865 I will always support #ToySoldiers for your epic demise and Sean’s role as Tepper! My future production company is even tepper boy productions lol

  4. Since I have no Photoshop skills… STORY TIME WITH BETH! 😉

    His father was an alcoholic, in that near-inevitable way most men who married young and had kids too early usually are. He died five years ago of liver failure and at the funeral everyone what a good man he was. They were right, but good isn’t great.

    When he drinks, he stops himself after two beers because he wants to be better than his dad was. His mom still leans up on her toes to kiss his cheek whenever he visits. She’s started dating again and he’s by turns happy for her and worried about her taste in men if his dad was any indication.

    He plays pool often, but never sharks anyone. He’ll take on the kids from the private school the next town over, who come to town looking for trouble and with deeper pockets than any seventeen year old should have. He works as a mechanic in the same shop his dad worked in. The owner talks about making him a manager, but he always passes.

    He doesn’t date, can’t afford to find a reason to stay. There’s a waitress at the chain restaurant he goes to for lunch most days; she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen since the day she walked into his freshmen class. She’s married, eight months along with her second kid, and her husband is another one of those good men.

    There’s a lot of good men in this town, but he wants to be great. And greatness is hard to find around here. So one day he’s gonna pack up his beat-up ’67 Chevy and while Steve Earle sings, he’s “gonna put her on the interstate and never look back.”

  5. “Drink in hand, she turned from the bar to scan the room, and that’s when she zeroed in on him. His story slung itself into the forefront of her mind in just that instant, and she knew – she KNEW – he was going to be a problem.

    The scene was like a cool album cover. He leant over the pool table slightly, like he was lining up a shot, but his aviator sunglasses would not reveal his eyes. He could easily have been zeroing in on her, for all she knew. The ironic neon sign on the wall behind him and to the side made it all so clear: OPEN. Oh, yes, he was. He definitely was.”

    And that’s my little piece of creativity for the night. Feel free to ride that wagon into the sunset, folks. And Wil, thanks for letting me share.

    2. But the road calls, echoes of Kerouac clang in his mind. Next to the pool table, the Hell’s Angels sometimes growl near audibly at the bar. He sees his face on Hunter S. Thompson’s riding away with them. Danger so elegant, but his mother’s promised tears hold him home.

  6. I have some friends who are WAY into Halloween. The “cover charge” for their party is a character backstory. The backstory must have two versions: The Elevator Pitch, and The Shaggy Dog Story (which must be able to last the duration of the party).

    At some point in the night we typically wind up in a Halloween version of Monty Python’s “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch.

    We sometimes add karaoke to the party, in which case each character must also have a theme song That Will Be Sung. For example, one year I arrived bloody, broken and burned in a formal black suit with the Elevator Pitch “When Bond Fucked Up For The Last Time” and sang “Secret Agent Man” with some lyric changes. The Shaggy Dog Story went through that fuck-up in “excruciating” detail.

  13. I made this up and spent an hour more on it than I should have haha, time to get back to homework.

    https://imgur.com/HpjSzUL

    As for additional story, I was thinking that he hustles on occasion to get more money, but maybe only particular targets. Maybe he’s the sort that shows up to beat the bullies at the pool halls, a sort of hero figure. Occasionally participates in competitions but isn’t interested in the fame from it. Like you said, he’s just trying to gather some funds to get out. I really wanted to get the neon sign for the title, so it came out to be maybe a bit of a stretch, but locks are when a game is a sure win. I took open lock to mean something like taking the opportunity to hustle a game and thus closing the lock. I’ll leave it at that.

    Have a good evening! I might fire up one of the old storytimes in the background, but it’s not as fun recorded.

  14. I’m getting a real Roy Thinnes Code Name: Diamondhead vibe from this, and I LIKE IT!

  15. He was halfway through his third beer. His last beer. The fourth would make him sloppy. He couldn’t afford sloppy. Hell. He couldn’t really afford those three beers, but he knew the bartender would kick him out if he stopped paying for drinks. Not that he had ever been in this particular bar before. He had, however, been in plenty like it. The rules were the same in all of them.

    Click. Leather on resin. Clack. Resin on resin. Thunk. Resin into the leather pocket. Perfect.

    He paused to consider his options through the double haze of aviators and cigarette smoke. The shades looked odd in a dim bar, but they helped him focus. The brightly lit table stayed visible, but the distractions faded into darkness. He spared a glance over the rim of his glasses as he leaned in to line up a shot. The man across the table looked like he was starting to realize how thoroughly the game had turned against him. There was enough cash riding on it for gas, food, and hotels for almost a week.

    Click. Clack. Thunk.

    The man was scowling now. The door was only about three long strides away if things got bad. Then the parking lot. The car. Jackie was waiting in the car, and a revolver was waiting in the glove box. The gun had been fired only twice before. Into the dirt both times. He tried to push the thought of a hasty escape out of his mind. Lean in close over the table. Block out the distractions. Line up the cue.

    Click. Clack. Thunk.

    Just the eight ball now, and the other man’s knuckles were white around his cue. There was probably enough gas in the car to make it to the next town over if he had to run. If the man didn’t follow him. If the white-knuckled man let him get to the door. If the length of rock maple in the man’s hand didn’t lash out, and crash into the side of his head. The last shot. Focus.

    Click. Clack. Thunk.

    The ball fell perfectly into place. He waited for a long moment. Expecting to hear a howl of rage, or the whistle of a cue swinging through the air. nothing.

    It looked like the air had gone out of the other man. Slumped and defeated, the man’s arm wavered in the space above the table. A neat roll of bills stood out sharply under the table light. He reached out to take it, and was surprised when the man spoke.

    “How do you do it? How do you play that well?”

    His plucked the money from the loser’s hand. “Focus, stay calm, and..” He pulled the glasses low on the bridge of his nose. The corners of his mouth turning upward into a smile. “Play more games.”

  16. After playing pool by himself cause non of the chicks appreciated his awesome coolness, he changed into a pair of Angel Flights and a large collared dark blue silk shirt with only the three bottom buttons buttoned, wore his three large-link gold chains (because, hey, they are COOL), kept his dark glasses on then went to Rumours at the Ala Moana Hotel on Oahu on a Friday night when they play the “golden oldies”. Standing on the side drink in hand, he watches the dancing and am wondering why the chicks aren’t approaching him because, Hey, I am looking awesome! Look at my chest and gold chains! Doesn’t that turn you on?! Oh well, you will be next Friday – same Bat-channel, same Bat-time

    And yes, if you’re wondering, it really does happen at Rumours! You never forget seeing a 50-60 year old man in tight polyester pants!

  18. At first, I was like, “we-ll, I don’t know how to do photo manipulation”, but then I realized, hey wait, this is a great excuse to play with layers, because I hear that’s totally a thing in image manipulation.

    Not sure why I came up with this particular angle, but I’m guessing it’s because Wil = nerd so clearly, that guy in the photo can’t just be your usual trope pool player. And I know that’s not what the original prompt said, so mea culpa, but hopefully someone gets a kick out of this. 🙂

    https://imgur.com/qFz69FL

  19. I could go and turn that (totally awesome) pic into a movie poster if – holy f*ck me – you hadn’t just totally pegged my life thirty years ago with your character concept. Until reading this, I never realized I was That Guy. So, instead of firing up Photoshop, I think I’m off to crack open a bottle of rum, blast some Sisters of Mercy, and find a dark corner in which to reconsider everything I thought I knew about my life…

  20. The name of the movie is called, “Behind the Eightball.” Our man, Friday, is slinging a little weed and hustling at the pool table to earn some money in the hopes of leaving his one-horse town.

  23. “OPEN”, the sign behind him lied, but Betty knew better. She had sown her oats with men like this for years after escaping the polyester grip of suburban banality. An unremarkable childhood in a town long sterilized of adventure had taught her the limitations of her own courage, and worse, her sagacity. Betty had fancied her twenties a whirlwind the likes of which would forge from a perfectly average girl an incandescent goddess, a woman of secrets and refinement.

    That dream had lasted all the way to twenty-five.

    “OPEN”, the sign said. “CLOSED”, his posture said, his sunglasses said, his beard du jour said, his carefully-managed look of careless confidence said. A chorus of klaxons. A forest of red flags. She had met him many times.

    In a way, he was her soulmate, her kindred spirit. As unremarkable as she, wrapped in a pretty bow instead of mystery. Slathering style over a thin crust of stale substance. This man she’d met so many times was filler, at best worth an evening or two of his greatest hits, a lifetime accumulation of affected charms and clever lines, illusions hinting at smoldering enigma.

    Betty and her soulmate would talk. They would take turns being dazzled by each other’s ambitions and graces. If found insufficient, they would lend each other a lens of estranged hope to magnify the other’s charms. Eventually, they would meet, and then they would end. Beneath the facades and learned attractions, they would discover in each other everything they’d left behind in their flight to this point. Mediocrity. Normalcy. A shared disappointment in each of their lives the other would inevitably embody.

    Betty knew better, now. The closed, assertive pose to hide a meager depth. The trendy beard offering ersatz individuality. The sunglasses to hide eyes already looking to up-sell her. Ten years ago, Betty would have called her shot and taken it with a man like this. At twenty-one, she’d have believed the lie. At twenty-eight, she’d have just wanted to come in from the cold for a while, even knowing how it would end.

    Tonight, at thirty-seven, she would know better. The cold had grown no less painful, its bite ever-changing. For a younger Betty, it was numb disillusionment and bitter self-doubt. Now, it was an icy contempt and the sting of gazes sliding past her, to younger women. But no matter the pain of loneliness, or feelings of unworthiness, fleeting relief had stopped being worth a man like this a long time ago. Yes, they had.

    They really, really, had.
    Betty knew better.
    Most of the time.

  24. John wins. A lot. Everyone in town figures he’s a great player, but he has a secret – he sees the futures. All of them.

    And it haunts him.

    He sees the futures he could have had, with the girl he was dating in high school. Picket fence, couple of kids, the whole shebang. Until he saw that she might get killed in a hit-and-run, when he decided to break up with her. Broke his heart, and hers. She ended up on a drinking binge, wandered out on the dirt road by her house, and was killed…just the way he had seen.

    Pool is just about the only thing that brings him some peace. He can see exactly where he needs to be, how much pressure to apply to the cue, to win every game. He tries to make it look difficult, but it’s not. He could easily hustle the greats. But that ends badly too…

  26. So I have writer’s block currently so it’s pretty bad and cliche and it probably went dark pretty fast. Then again that tends to happen i go to very dark places when I write. But I always enjoy your writing prompts and I can’t photo manipulate so a really bad story it is.

    The bar was smoky, and he was the coolest person there. But soon his night would change. He hit the last ball into the pocket not knowing that soon something ominous was going to happen.

    “Hey” His girl comes over, she is hot like the type of hot only cool guys can get, while the rest of us only dream of having such a girl.

    “Hey honey” He kisses her passionately.

    “Yo, asshole, I need my money” A big burly man walks across the room, interrupting the couples make out session. The coolest guy ever time had run out on a gambling debt.

    “Just give me another week, I’ll have it I swear,” The cool guy was getting ready to fight if he had to.

    “Another week?! I’ve given you six months I need it tonight.”

    “Well I don’t have it.”

    “Then I will break both your legs” The scary man replied

    The cool guy picks up his pool cue and readies it as a weapon, whap right upside the face Terrance, the bookie was hit.
    Terrance stumbles back a few feet, but quickly regains his balance. Waits for opening and punches cool guy right in the jaw.

    The fight goes on for a few minutes both men exhausted, but neither willing to give up.

    Terrance realizes that he’d be more likely to get the money another way, and he knew how he was going to do it.
    He decided to temporarily knock both cool guy and his girlfriend out. While they were out cold he grabbed the girl friend and threw her in the back of his car. He quickly jotted a note on a bar napkin and laid it on cool guys shirt it said:
    Pay your debt your never see your girl again.

  27. Chuck had played for hours now, after school, taking it to these little dweebs and rich bastard nerds in their fancy private school uniforms. God, he hated them, and it showed in his play and his attitude. He had indulged his True Alpha Male psyche all over their stupid beta asses for hours, and he had their cash in his pockets to prove it, and now he was halfway through the Big Score, a doubles game with Smitty on his side and some weirdo 70s reject on the side of the weak little scumbag cuck he was hustling
    It had been a pretty good game, although there was something nagging at the back of his mind about this older guy in the shades. The poor little private school shit had fucked up on the break, and Smitty had made him pay by pocketing 4 balls before just touching the 5 so it slid between the 13 and the pocket. Smitty wasn’t good enough to set up all the shots, but at least he knew enough to screw his opponents when he was out of shots, That two grans on the rail was as good as theirs, cause Chuck could pocket 4 balls in his sleep, no matter where they ended up. The little private school shit was freaking out a little. maybe he had dropped his full allowance on the rail and would have to do without his cocaine or hookers this week. Or maybe he was a scholarship kid from the Flats who though he could hang and this was all of his money for the semester. Chuck didn’t care. He hated them all, no matter where they came from.
    As Smitty moved to sit down after ending his turn, Chuck “accidentally” stepped on the little shits toes and ground his heel down.

    "Ahh!! What the hell?", the little private school shit whined.

    "Oh, so sooorrry. I didn't see your little foot there. I was just stretching. Sorry." Chuck gave the shit his most sincere smile. Smitty stifled a laugh. Chuck smirked at Smitty. This little bit of revenge on the universe felt so good, and the cash would be awesome.
    The old 70s dude on the aviator shades didn't say anything, just looked back and forth from Smitty to Chuck. Chuck couldn't tell what he was thinking behind those dark lenses, but he decided he didn't like it. And who wears a vest anymore? This guys had it coming, all right.
    "It's your shot old man.", Chuck growled. His adrenaline was surging. Maybe when he won he would taunt the little shit into a fight and kick his ass. Maybe he would just wave the cash in the little pricks face and laugh. Maybe he would take a cue to the old guy and steal his sunglasses. He didn't know, but he reveled in the choices.
    The old man lined up a shot on the 13, even though the 13 was blocked by Smitty's 5. Jesus, this was pathetic. This stupid old man was going to make his job even easier than it was supposed to be.

    Later, when he and Smitty regained consciousness in the ambulance with the handcuffs securing them to the gurneys, they were able to compare notes enough to remember the impossible shots made by the older guy in the shades. They didn't remember their cues swinging and missing the older stranger as he effortlessly shifted his body away from their rage, or his whirling cue stick hitting them, or their own bones cracking under his swings. And later they heard all about the aftermath, after the cops had come, and the ambulance, and the witness statements, and the poolhall manager banning them for life. The part that stung the most was when they heard that the older guy in his shades and his stupid vest hadn't said anything the entire time, hardly said anything to the cops, letting other witnesses speak for him, and just handed the whole two grand wad to that little private school shit who had started the whole thing and just...left.
    Chuck's rage burned hot again, to match the pulsing ache in his head. Smitty seemed freaked out by the arrest, but Chuck knew it didn't matter anymore. He hadn't realized it, but he finally found what he had been looking for his entire life. He had a Nemesis.
    Chuck smiled as the EMTs wheeled his gurney into the emergency room,.

  32. Working from Wil’s original prompt, I had a little bit different take than some of the other writers here:

    The man behind those shades isn’t a hard-luck guy; he’s respectable. Wears a uniform in the daily grind. In the daylight, other people don’t see him; they see the uniform. They see the borrowed authority, the weight of other people’s decisions who wear the same uniform rubbing off onto him like black shoe polish onto the cuffs of his uniform pants. He doesn’t get enough credit for what he does right, and he gets too much credit for other people’s mistakes. He’s solid. Reliable. But the uniform is a sinkhole he can’t yet escape.

    Soon, though. A few more months of saving, stretching last week’s pay a little further, walking instead of driving the battered old Corolla that gets him back and forth to work. The better life is waiting patiently, a little ways down the road. For now, shooting pool is the escape, the comfort item. The pool hall belongs to the father of his best friend since second grade; he learned how to make a break shot when he still needed a footstool to stand on. He plays for free, as long as the place doesn’t get too crowded. There aren’t as many regulars as there used to be, but they all know each other. This is the place where he’s at home, and can really be himself, not just the actor in the uniform. The shades help make sure he doesn’t show too much of himself to strangers before he wants to, but it’s more of a gauzy curtain than a real shield or disguise. He knows full well that you can’t hide your true self in your home environment, either from other people or from yourself. When he wears the uniform, he can pretend to be what the uniform needs him to be. But here, when he’s got a pool cue in his firm, sure hands, what you see is what you get. No pretensions, no tricks, just the confidence of a man finally in his element, under the neon glow.

  33. “MOTHER MAY I”

    Billy longed to get out of that dead-end hellhole, so he sharked a little on the side. He told himself he did it for the money, but the thrill was always there in the back of his mind. Always hoping for that one big score; the one that would take him and Joanie all the way to the big city lights and away from these podunk backwoods forever. He thought he’d finally found it when that rich, old city bat walked through the door, but he wasn’t prepared for what came along with her. When you shark the wrong lady, sometimes she bites back. And Mother always knows best.

    Starring Wil Wheaton, Kate Jackson, and Earnest Borgnine. With Angela Lansbury as “Mother”.

    1. Just to be clear, I envision this as a ’70s caper flick who’s tone borrows from Roadhouse, The Godfather, and Mommie Dearest. Once Billy gets on the wrong side of the sinister and sophisticated “Mother”, will he and Joanie live to see the big city lights?

  34. I was supposed to be going to bed, but apparently I had one hundred words in me. 🙂

    He knew better.

    This was the wrong side of town. The thugs here were rougher than the rowdies back home, and if he crossed the wrong player, payment would be more than a black eye. But he didn’t have a choice. Because while he knew this crowd, if only by reputation, they didn’t know him.

    And that little fact had made it a good night. He’d made enough to call it a win.

    Yet here he was, knowing he should head home, but looking to hustle one more stranger – for the thrill, for the fun, and mostly, for the money.

  36. I find the pool of creativity in this post to be quite a refreshing change from the doldrums of scientific articles I have been immersed in of late. While I do not have much in the way of creative writing, I just wanted to say that I can at the very least appreciate what has been put forth by others. Well done, all!

  37. The steady hum of neon was a soothing counterpoint to the broken music coming from the old jukebox. Ronnie thought it might have been a Dean Martin track at some point, but the melody was warped just past the point of recognition. The only other noises in the joint were the quiet one-word conversations between tired old men as they drank their way to oblivion, and the sharp crack of the cue ball as it ricocheted over the felt. His girl was still working, wiping down a table over in the corner, and would be for some time, not that he would notice; time had no meaning when the pool cue was in his hands.

    He was known as the hustler, not because he could swindle cash from green boys after they had a few drinks, but because he was honest. He never told a lie, he always gave it to you straight, but he never lost. Pool sharks would come slinking in the bar every now and again, and Johnny, the bartender, would always point them towards Ronnie, quietly laughing as he wiped down a glass and watched as the greedy bastards went to meet their fate.

    That night was no different. A group of loud, already drunk frat boys pushed their way into the quiet of the bar. Ronnie never looked at them, knowing they would come to him before too long. Johnny gave them their drinks and they went over to a table, whistling at Ronnie’s girl in passing. Ronnie hoped they wouldn’t try and touch her, it wouldn’t be fun to play against them if they were nursing broken noses; Annie had a mean left hook.

    Thankfully, the boys didn’t try anything stupid, and soon they were meandering over to Ronnie’s table, watching him shoot. Tonight he’d only played for a few minutes before the boys had placed a wad of twenties on the side rail. It was always the same; he never tried to hide how good he was, he always played at his best, but green boys seemed to think he was ripe for taking.

    “You sure you want to do this, fellas?” He asked without taking his sights off the balls.

    Various alcohol-laced affirmations were chorused, and he looked over at Johnny, silently asking for a refill as he began to rack the balls. Annie came over with his whisky and gave him a peck on the cheek.

    “Have fun darlin’,” she murmured, and went back to wiping down tables.

    Crack! The break sent the balls flying over the felt with a sound like thunder that briefly rose above the neon’s hum. One after the other, the balls found their pockets as Ronnie set them in his sights. After the game had finished, Ronnie pocketed his cash and began polishing his cue. The frat boys were getting angry and started demanding a rematch, but Ronnie had stopped caring. Silently, he racked the balls and lined up his cue. He almost smiled as he pulled back, hitting the cue ball at just the right angle. The balls flew, bouncing off each other, spinning down the sides, until they all sunk into the pockets: the perfect break.

    Silence spread across the bar until the only sounds were the clink of glasses as Johnny cleaned, and the hum of the neon sign. Even the jukebox seemed to have given up. The frat boys stared at Ronnie with a strange mix of fear and awe in their eyes before turning away. Ronnie went back to racking the balls, ignoring the whispers the built up around him. He was tired. One day he’d take Annie and go off into the sunset, but not tonight. Tonight he’d wait for her shift to end and take her to bed. Until then he would play.

    Someone kicked the jukebox to life and the quiet tones of Sinatra stretched into the quiet. The muted thunder of pool balls could be heard every few moments. Behind everything, the neon lights hummed.

  40. So I’m sitting here at work, listening to some synthwave (Mangadrive – Death Tursimo).

    This picture is now part of my headcannon for the song “Tsuiso.”

    Part of an early 80s final pool tournament montage sequence.

    Our Protag (that’s you, Wil) is 80s cool (TM) lining up his winning shot.

  42. Many lashings that this isn’t in the right spot, but you need to get John Scalzi back to TableTop and bring Joe hill in too. That would be a lot of fun to watch.

  44. His opponent watched impatiently as he carefully calculated the exact angle he needed to hit the ball at. After adjusting his position twice, he took the shot. The cue ball hit the Three which in turn hit the Five at just the right angle to send both into opposing side pockets. He could do this all night.

  45. And reallyyyy too late, there’s mine ! https://imgur.com/d8N6yeF

    PS square would be way too long too photoshop ! ( 3 -4 hours I guess, for a clean job…)
    PPS As it is my first post, @Wil, please be assure that I only send you my love with this !

  46. Wil you’ve completely lost your mind. Nice tweet about religion and the shooting in the church. I’m just so disappointed with you.

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