From reports of dreams and fantasies that Lucy Corin collected from friends and acquaintances after the 2016 presidential election. Corin is the author, most recently, of One Hundred Apocalypses and Other Apocalypses (McSweeney’s Books), a volume of short stories.

A million people are beating pots and pans outside the White House. I shoot my neighbor and take his Goya.

I belong to the bourgeoisie. I’m done for. I’m thinking “fenestration.”

I keep asking people to pretend that we’re in love, just for the day. No one will agree.

Leaving a party at a club, I go outside and find all my friends impaled on maple trees.

My head is entirely covered by ticks.

I want to get in touch with the people who know how to assassinate people. But how do I know whom to target? Is there a Google doc?

I’m in a secret gang of justice fighters. I walk around listening to rap and intervening when someone innocent is attacked.

Suddenly I know about algorithms, so I go on my computer and save everyone.

Everyone is whispering on the street, and I’m the only one who can’t hear what they’re saying.

I’m on the train to Auschwitz.

I drive off the end of the Bay Bridge.

I say to my friend, “Do you have a gun?” because she lives in the South, where a lot of white people have guns. She shoots me.

I invite him to a campfire I’ve built. He comes close and then melts, because he is made of wax.

I bisect his head, and it is orange through and through.

I’m in a pile of money. I’m fine.