Prompt #39
You had a question for me?
Hello, all.
Question:
Where did our summer go? Also, how are you? Whatcha been doing? How about those Dodgers? What time is dinner? Who’s on first? I’m on vacation with my husband and guess who has Covid? (Clue: it’s not me. Yet. Wish me luck!)
Yes, we’re looking at questions this week, and the way writers sometimes make use of questions in their stories.
Just for interest’s sake, let’s start by looking at the titles of a few well-known books that are questions:
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Philip K. Dick)
Are You My Mother? (P.D. Eastman)
Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret (Judy Blume)
They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (Horace McCoy)
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Edward Albee—and yes, this one is a play)
Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (Mindy Kaling)
Where’d You Go, Bernadette (Maria Semple—she purposely did not use a question mark in her title)
Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? (Jeannette Winterson)
Why did the authors of these books choose to use the form of a question as a title? I don’t have the definitive answer for that, but I can take a guess. To ask a question is to imply that there will be an answer—as long as you open the book and read it.
Most books and stories, of course, do not use a question as the title. But plenty of writers use questions in the body of their work. And this “questioning” can be for any number of reasons.
Here are a few examples:
Take a look at the following wonderful story written mostly in questions from Vestal Review. Entitled “American Songbook,” it was written by Kathryn Kulpa and can be found HERE. I can’t tell you how much I love this story. “Or was it just one of those things?” kills me every time, Cole Porter fan that I am. (My favorite version of that song: HERE.) Try to imagine Kulpa’s story written without questions. Everything changes, doesn’t it? We need those questions to understand the narrator’s feeling about her parents—the things she wonders about and the things she will never know. And how brilliant to use the “American Songbook” of her parents’ generation to think deeply about them?
Here’s another story for you. It’s called “The Fly” and was written by Roberta Allen. Published online at OPEN: Journal of Arts and Letters, it can be found HERE. At the end of the story, the narrator asks these questions: “Do I sound absurd? Did that fly mean nothing at all? Is meaning something only we add on to things?” Notice that she doesn’t answer them. She simply asks, and it’s the asking without answering that gives her story its power, leaving the reader with something to ponder.
And one more for this week, “Antarctica” by Michelle Elvy, published at SmokeLong Quarterly (HERE). In this story, there’s really only one main question: “What are you doing in there?” And isn’t that the question of our lives?
TODAY’S PROMPT
Write a story made up of all (or mostly) questions!
If you can’t write an entire story in questions, write a story with questions sprinkled throughout.
Or, have your story ask one major question, like Elvy does in “Antarctica.”
And/or give your story a title that is in the form of a question.
Alternative prompt: Missing tooth.
That’s it! As always, 400 words max posted in the comments (though you are welcome to write as much as you like).
What Was That Scratching Down In The Kitchen ?
It woke me up, that was sure.
"Jerry?" I whispered. "Jerry!"
My hand found cold sheets in the bed where my husband usually was.
"Jerry, where are you?"
He wasn't answering. And that scratching hadn't stopped. Was it even scratching? Scraping? Knocking?
I'm not a scaredy-cat, but I don't want to be alone to face a burglar in the house. I mean, what are husbands for? What could I do, without leaving the bedroom? Scare the burglar? The alarm? How did you set it off? We had a little booklet of instructions in a bedside table drawer. His or mine?
A loud wood-splintering sound came up from the kitchen.
"Jerry, WHERE ARE YOU?" I yelled.
More wood-splintering.
Where could I hide? And where were my clothes? I was stark naked. (Don't ask). If a burglar found me like that, what would be sure to happen next? I mean, he might be a gentleman burglar, but what were the chances?
"JERRY! I'M NOT JOKING! WHERE ARE YOU!"
Call the police? My phone was recharging down below. Jerry's phone? Where in hell was Jerry's phone?
Turn on the lights. Pick up my clothes from all across the floor. Pull them on fast. Search everywhere. No telephone.
Shit, Jerry! Have you done a runner? One last time, full tilt boogie, then sneak out the door, is that it?
I'm going down. Quietly. Get the phone, lock myself in the downstairs bathroom. Call the cops. Softly, softly, down the stairs. My phone is in the lounge near the TV. Unhook from recharge. Jesus, it's burbling! Drop it on the couch, stick a cushion over it.
Stop, listen.
Someone's crying.
Jerry?
In the kitchen?
Creep over there, look in.
Jerry's phone is on the floor with the flashlight on. He's sitting in his underwear on the floor with his back to the store cupboard, smashed and splintered. His face is all broken with tears.
"I can't find it," he says.
"What can't you find, honey?"
"My tooth. I lost a tooth."
If you wake a sleepwalker, don't you do them lasting harm?
"We'll look for it tomorrow."
"No, it's gone, it's gone!"
When men dream of a missing tooth, what's that supposed to mean?
"Come on back up to bed, and I'll show you where it is, sweetheart," I say.
As you can see from the title, I decided to use both prompts... question and missing tooth...
Where is my missing tooth?
Why does my mouth hurt? Why am I missing a tooth? How did I end up on the sidewalk on my side in the dark? What can I remember about how I got here? Why did that man hit me in the face? Why didn’t I block his fist with my own? How long have I been lying here? Is that my tooth, near me on the pavement, glinting in the distant street light? When will I be able to climb to my feet, tuck the tooth in a shirt pocket and walk away? Who was this man who attacked me? Where can I find him? Why can’t I remember anything, even who I am? What is that word, when you can’t remember anything? I think it starts with an A. Who the hell am I?