By: Kerry Lauerman

Don’t you dare call it bric-a-brac.

By: Bryn Smith

A good umbrella is a faithful companion against the wet, dark night.

By: Abby Rapoport

I was unprepared for the deeply satisfying click when two tiles connect.

By: Marc Weidenbaum

The dummy jack was a sound art readymade.

By: Alyssa Giacobbe

Its former life seemed to have been a French fry bag.

By: Shawn Wolfe

The first and last box of Ayds grandma ever bought.

By: Kelli Anderson

A sculptural terrain that systematically shows and hides its facets.

By: Ciara O'Rourke

I held my breath hoping she wouldn’t move.

By: Chelsea Barabas

I practiced every day, jabbing the knife into the shadows.

By: Wayne Chambliss

A box, which is now filled — matryoshka-style — with many, many fetishes.

By: Mimi Lipson

There is no plan to install the tub.

By: Hilary Greenbaum

I now own more photographs of other peoples’ families than I do of my own

By: Carlo Rotella

A magic finger that can make an electrified plank sing.

By: Toni Schlesinger

I want a cloud that I can live on all the time and never have to leave.

By: Niela Orr

The Questions’ name is a cheeky reference to Iverson’s nom de play, “The Answer.”