To the Word I’m writing to, dreams are forgotten, creativity is outlawed, and imagination is locked away.

My name is Max Samuels, One of the last Fantasizers. A group formed of some of the greatest visionaries of imagination, a group that our government is trying to destroy.

As many of you know, the great ban of creativity was presented as a way of bringing order, by removing all uncontrollable ideas, we allegedly would be rid of all chaos.

They lied, and are lying still.

This…Sameness, has killed humanity. Some of the rich and ignorant haven’t noticed, and some naive try to believe it’s get better.

Tyrants control our every thought, and anything opposing is seen as dangerous.

The Fantasizer’s held true to the original beliefs, that creation through imagination is a necessity.

We brought hope to the hopeless, and in turn were prosecuted.

We would share stories, art, music, dance, film, we tried to restore what was lost.

The government tries to shut us down, both through rumors, and force.

We still fought, sneaking undercover to those who would listen, Picasso, Motzart, J.R Tolkien, The Beetles , Walt Disney, something for anyone, any age.

Then, they trapped us, setting up agents inside Community’s, causing real chaos.

We lost most of our force, and scattered the rest.

I’m telling you this because I believe someone, who can see through the lies, will read this, and the tides will turn.

My position is very unstable, and I have no way of knowing who gets this first, so i apologize for any vague information. I take residence inside one of the only remaining works of art, where leaders stand firm as a mountain, find me quickly.

Good luck, may imagination guide you

-Max J. Samuels, Fantasizer.

The Academy of Useful Knowledge towered above the houses in Maddox's neighborhood, a giant cube of concrete and glass painted a dull gray. A pair of Enforcers, wearing gray uniforms marked with the government's triangular symbol, stood right out front with their signature electric weapons. He waved to them as he started his walk home, as he always did. The Enforcers did not acknowledge his gesture.

Today, a guest speaker had come to school: a geneticist from the capital city, who explained that the human brain had four major lobes: sight, hearing, spatial recognition, and reasoning. Creativity was dangerous and unpredictable because it didn't belong to any of these areas, instead combining parts of all of them into a signal that nobody could exactly identify. The Department of Impulse Control was working to solve these mysteries, but they hadn't done it yet.

As Maddox stepped onto the sidewalk, he saw a weird piece of paper on the sidewalk. He picked it up, intending to throw it into the garbage at the first opportunity, until he saw words written on it. To the World I'm writing to, dreams are forgotten, creativity is outlawed, and imagination is locked away.

Of course dreams were forgotten: it wasn't easy to remember them after you woke up from sleeping. And imagination? It wasn't locked away; he was very capable of imagining what would happen later today when he got home and did homework. That was all those things meant.

As he kept reading, he didn't understand all the words in the message. Film? Music? Picasso? He couldn't help but feel something very strange: a sense of expanding, like his mind was getting bigger than his head. Maybe even bigger than the sky, like he was looking down at himself from somewhere high up and noticed for the first time just how small his faraway body was. It was uncomfortable and awkward and a little bit terrifying. And the weirdest part was that this was a good feeling.

He got to the bottom of the page, then threw it out in the garbage, shook his head, and tried to forget the note had ever existed. But the words kept echoing in his head.

When he finally got to his house, a plain wooden construction in the exact center of a grassy lawn, he threw his backpack down on the ground and went to get a sandwich. His mom greeted him as always with the same phrase: "Maddox, was your day productive?"

He always answered yes (that was the purpose of school, after all), but today he paused. "Mom, who's Picasso?"

She paused. "You don't need to worry about that right now, dear. Do your homework."

As the day dragged into night and he drilled his way through dozens of geometry problems and chemistry questions, his vision got blurry from staring at the paper. He couldn't stop thinking about the man who had written it, Max Samuels, and his desperate plea for anyone who found the message to seek him out. But how could one kid find someone who had hidden himself from the world?

Maddox finished his homework as he did every day: with a dreary sense of duty and the feeling that committing such important and rational knowledge to his memory had to have a more enjoyable way than this. Still, as he dragged himself downstairs for dinner, the note swam round his head: Picasso, Walt Disney, The Beatles. All these foreign names he had never heard of itched at the empirical part of his brain that had been dutifully trained to want to see each piece of material evidence before reaching any conclusion.

He sat at the table and chewed his spaghetti methodically, twice for flavour, and three times again for effective digestion, like he had been taught in elementary school health class. Only when he was exactly sixteen chews—about four bites—in to his meal, did his father clear his throat and look at his watch.

“Roxanne is late,” he said, licking at the red saucy ring around his lips. “She was due home at 6.15.”

Maddox paused. It was a Friday, of course, his sister would spend the weekend home from University. “Maybe her bus is delayed,” he added helpfully, and for a second, he thought: ‘there, that is imagination. I imagine Roxanne has missed her bus,’ in a sort of triumph against the slight offense this mysterious Samuels had caused him with his moral creative grandstanding.

His mother slipped carefully at her water. “Yes, Maddox is probably correct. Wait a moment, dear, you know how teenagers can be.”

Maddox’s father grumbled as he broke off a piece of garlic bread, but he obliged, dining room devolving into cutlery soundtracked silence. It took eight more bites for the front door to swing open, Roxanne fumbling through it, arms laden with bags and suitcases, professing apologies about missed buses and forgetting her laptop at her dorm. She collapsed down at her seat as their mother began ladling her plate high, telling stories of university and her coursemates hijinks.

After dinner, Maddox found himself stood outside Roxanne’s door, knocking nervously.

“Roxie?” He asked. “Can you take me to your university library tomorrow?”

Roxanne laughed and looked at him over her book—a massive dry tome she had to read for school on civil engineering. “Why? I didn’t think you were interested in what makes concrete structurally integral.”

Maddox nodded his head and swallowed. “No, I’m not. I’m just doing some…personal reasearch.”

Roxanne set her book down. “And our local Centre of Useful Knowledge doesn’t have what you need?” She laughed at her own joke, using the local library’s official government title in a mocking pompous flourish, when no one called it that.

“No, I, uh…I’m looking for stuff on someone called Max Samuels. Or Picasso. Or Tolkie—“

Roxie clambered towards him and clamped a hand over his mouth, like she did when they play fought as kids. She had gone very quiet now, still and pale.

“I know them. I’ll take you. But you cannot speak a word of it to anyone.”

And with that, she pushed him out of the room.