Wednesday was/is brain splash day. It was when three graduate students decided that if they were told their writing was filled with terrible extremity one more time, they were going to start getting utterly intoxicated prior to their workshop’s meeting. And as generic, uninspired writing continued to garner praise, the students decided to flip their desks atop the workshop leader’s cloven head and create something different. Not something professors and bitter elders would take interest in, but rather something writers of alternative fiction would want to read. Something that contained stories and tales and pieces of visual grandeur that defied generics and spat in the faces of the safe story shapes. They met over beer and whiskey and bubbly and they decided to do something excitingly different. They decided to start a literary journal filled with wicked fiction and stylized artistry and photography. They set out to create something that was worth getting excited over. And that, in turn, led them here – to the creation of The Artificial Selection Project.

This was day one. This was the beginning.

They were absolutely fucking dodo.

The Shapes of Stories