White lips. Pale face. Annihilate the human race.
Alex Creece is probably some type of mutant swamp bear hailing from Jupiter’s vast quagmires of miasmic certain-death and literature lust. Her fictional writing tends to gravitate towards genres speculative or slipstream in nature, and generally takes on forms as short as her tolerance for unkindness (micro, flash, poetry). She loves a little creative nonfiction too, and at some point will likely attempt the star-crossed endeavour of making comic books and/or controversial children’s books.
Alex likes grit and grime and graphic details. Her living space is filled with intense collages, monstrous Lego creations, books of all genre and form, and the nostril-decaying farticles emitted from the butt of her beautiful mutt, Danzig. She excels at making mistakes, but even more so, at learning from them and fashioning them into stories and strength. Unfortunately not physical strength though; this kid’s got the weakest arms.
Alex is passionate about the real and the surreal, and wears her vulnerabilities as boldly as she does her other questionable choices of attire. She hopes to be like one of those free standing punching bags, in the sense that when you punch them and push them down, they fling back upright with twice as much force. Yes. That’s exactly who she wants to be: a bottom-heavy rubber sac of breath that cannot be stopped. Alex also aspires to someday be a spooky ghost that people see before they die.
Alex is happiest when it storms. And of course, when the chemtrails are at their most potent.