If you’re in the zine world long enough, you start noticing patterns. One of them is this: every few years, someone pops up who reminds the whole scene why we fell in love with zines in the first place. They don’t just make good work — they make it feel possible. They radiate “grab a Sharpie and do it too” energy. Right now? That person is Bre — better known as @brattyxbre, the brain (and hands) behind Bre’s Tiny Print Shop.
With more than 80K followers across TikTok and Instagram and more than 43k subscribers on YouTube, a buzzing Patreon with over a thousand members, and a back catalogue of zines, tutorials, and tutorials-masquerading-as-chaos, Bre has become a one-woman catalyst for the next wave of DIY publishing. She makes zines about being Black and Polynesian, about girlhood and glitter, about silliness and sadness, and about nothing in particular. And then she turns around and teaches you how to do it too, in a way that feels less like a lecture and more like your friend passing you scissors and saying: “Okay, your turn.”
This is the story of how she got here, why her work matters, and why we can’t stop scrolling her feed — or better yet, printing out our own.
The Tiny Print Origin Story
Bre grew up in California, surrounded by words and art. She studied English, Creative Writing in college, graduating in 2019. Like a lot of creatives, she stood at the familiar fork in the road: find a way into the “real” art world (galleries, publishing, corporate creative jobs) or make her own lane. Spoiler: she made her own lane, paved it in stickers, and spray-painted a sign that said “NO PERMISSION NEEDED.”
Her first zines weren’t meant to be business ventures or viral posts. They were tiny experiments — Sharpie scribbles, folded paper, jokes turned into little booklets. She posted them online, half-expecting no one to notice. Instead, people lit up. They wanted more. They wanted to know how she did it. They wanted to make their own.
From that spark came Bre’s Tiny Print Shop — an online corner where she sells zines, stickers, tees, keychains, buttons, and other objects that carry her scrappy, playful touch. It’s not just a shop, though. It’s a portal. You click in to buy a sticker, and you leave with the sudden urge to make something yourself.
Bre + Big Cartel: The Tiny Shop That Could #NotAnAd
Bre doesn’t just make zines — she runs a full-on shop, and she does it on Big Cartel. It’s the perfect platform for her brand: simple, artist-friendly, and built for small-scale makers who’d rather spend their energy creating than wrestling with backend dashboards.
Unlike the Etsy grind, Big Cartel keeps Bre’s shop curated and personal. There’s no algorithm burying her work under mass-produced noise; it’s just her, her products, and her people. The interface is clean, the vibe is indie, and it mirrors her “tiny but mighty” ethos.
Big Cartel isn’t just cheaper than Shopify — it’s a reminder that commerce doesn’t have to feel corporate. Back when indie e-commerce cracked open in the early 2010s, it was a lifeline for makers. It might not be the trendiest platform now, but that’s the point: no algorithms, no gatekeeping, just a storefront that lets scrappy artists actually survive.
For Bre, the shop doubles as a living archive of experiments. One month it’s mini-zines, the next it’s stickers, tees, or keychains (perfect gifts for your favourite artist/crafter/maker friend). Each restock feels like an event — a peek into what she’s been playing with lately. Big Cartel makes it easy for her to keep things fluid, low-pressure, and true to her style.
Zine Maker, Content Maker, Chaos Maker
Bre doesn’t separate her zine practice from her content practice — they’re two parts of the same ecosystem. On YouTube, you’ll find videos like “How to Be a Zine Maker (5 FOOLPROOF Steps)” or her “GAY ZINE TOUR,” both equal parts tutorial and comedy. On TikTok, it’s rapid-fire: short clips showing how to fold a one-page mini zine, encouragement to stop overthinking, or glimpses into her own messy desk covered in paper scraps.
The vibe? Casual, funny, not-too-serious. Bre’s brand of teaching is more like hanging out with a cousin who shoves a glue stick into your hand and dares you to ruin a magazine page. She makes zine-making look less like a project and more like a party.
This is crucial, because zines — for all their history of rebellion and activism — can sometimes feel intimidating to newcomers. The politics, the archives, the photocopy lore: it’s a lot. Bre cuts through that with humour. Her videos say: Sure, history matters. But mostly? Just make something.
The Zine Spectrum: What Bre Actually Makes
Personal Zines (a.k.a. Heart on the Page)
Some of Bre’s zines are deeply personal — reflections on identity, girlhood, grief, and joy. These pieces read like intimate diary entries, handwritten and illustrated with doodles that feel like they could have come from your own notebook. They’re small, vulnerable, and human in a way that only zines can be.
Instructional Zines (How-To, But Make It Fun)
Other times, Bre’s zines double as guides. They break down zine-making itself, demystify creative block, or show you how to fold paper into new formats. These aren’t dry manuals; they’re illustrated with goofy jokes, hand-drawn arrows, and an energy that says, “Don’t overthink it — just try.”
Art Zines (Visual Overload)
Bre also makes zines that lean hard into art and design. Collages of found images, doodles layered over text, playful use of colour and pattern. They’re tactile even on a screen — you can almost feel the Sharpie smears and paper edges through the layout. These are the zines that remind you: content can be visual, not just verbal.
Theme Zines (Obsession Made Tangible)
Like many zinesters, Bre loves to fixate on a theme — a band, a mood, a weird little niche thought. She’ll spin an obsession into a 12-page zine that feels like a love letter or an inside joke you’re suddenly invited into. These zines are the most bratty in tone: unapologetic, specific, and fun.
Community Zines (Collabs + Anthologies)
Then there are the projects Bre hosts or contributes to alongside others: multi-voice zines where friends, Patreon supporters, or fellow zinesters send in pieces that get assembled into a single volume. These projects are less about one voice and more about creating a shared snapshot of a moment in time.
The Patreon Zine Club
If Instagram and TikTok are her megaphones, Patreon is her clubhouse. Over a thousand people subscribe to Bre’s Zine Club, where every month she drops digital zines and, for some tiers, snail-mail editions.
Here’s how it works: digital zines go live around the 21st, then the physical ones get mailed out (yes, with real stamps, no tracking, just trust). Each zine is a little different, driven by mood more than theme. Some are doodle-heavy, some more essay-like, some pure collage chaos. Subscribers never quite know what they’re going to get — which is half the fun.
The point isn’t just the zine itself; it’s the ritual. The surprise of opening your mailbox and finding something handmade in a world where most mail is bills. The feeling of belonging to a club that’s global but still feels intimate.
Aesthetic and Attitude
What sets Bre apart isn’t just the fact that she makes zines — it’s how she makes them feel.
- Playful, not precious. Bre doesn’t fetishize “perfect risograph” aesthetics. She embraces mistakes: toner smudges, Sharpie bleeds, crooked cuts.
- Mess as method. Where others might apologize for a jammed printer, Bre laughs and shows you how to work with it.
- Bright and bratty. Her brand voice — across socials, shop listings, and tutorials — is cheeky, casual, and a little bratty (on purpose). It gives her work permission to be unserious, which ironically makes it more serious.
- Community first. Everything she makes points back to the reader: You can do this too. Here’s how.
It’s a blend of DIY punk ethos and 2025 internet fluency — one foot in photocopied tradition, the other in TikTok’s scrollable chaos.
Why She Resonates Right Now
The world is noisy. Digital platforms flatten everything into endless content. Creative work often gets swallowed by algorithms and brand gloss. And yet — Bre’s work cuts through. Why?
Because she makes zines feel like an antidote. They’re not polished campaigns. They’re handmade, human, sometimes a little ugly. And she reminds us that ugly is okay — it’s honest.
For younger creators, she’s proof that you don’t need money or access to make something that matters. For older zinesters, she’s a reminder of why they started folding paper in the first place. For all of us, she’s an invitation to stop doomscrolling and start stapling.
She Zine’s Take
We’re obsessed with makers who straddle the line between tradition and experimentation. Bre is one of them. She’s not trying to replicate the riot grrrl zines of the ’90s, nor is she chasing sleek design-world approval. She’s carving out a middle lane that feels exactly like now: playful, intersectional, digital-friendly but grounded in print history.
She reminds us that zines aren’t just objects. They’re practices. They’re ways of thinking, sharing, and resisting the urge to polish ourselves into blandness.
Beyond the Shop: Bre’s Influence
It’s not just about her own output. Bre has become a hub for teaching, inspiring, and encouraging. Aspiring zinesters comment on her videos saying she gave them the push they needed. Kids (and grown-ups) discover her tutorials and suddenly realize all they need to do is start from exactly where they are.
In a way, she’s a bridge: taking the energy of old-school zine culture and translating it for a digital-native generation. Her presence makes the scene feel less like a niche subculture and more like an open invitation.
What’s Next for Bre
Fans are already buzzing (Bre’s Tiny Print Shop). She’s also expanding her Patreon, experimenting with new formats (flexagons, zine-in-a-box ideas, postcard runs).
If history is any indicator, whatever Bre does next will be equal parts practical and playful. It will involve paper, ink, and probably a little glitter. It will definitely involve laughter.
Profiles like this usually end with a big summation: “Bre is redefining zine culture for a new generation.” Which, sure, is true. But the real takeaway is simpler than that: Bre makes zines fun. She makes them feel possible. And she makes them feel necessary.
In her world, you don’t need the perfect tools. You don’t need the right connections. You don’t even need clean cuts. You just need urgency, a Sharpie, and the willingness to show up.
That’s the heart of zine culture. That’s the gospel of Tiny Print. And if you’re not already following her, what are you waiting for?
🖤 Stay Bratty, Stay Bold
Follow Bre for more chaotic-good content, zines that bite back, and hot takes from the margins. She’s the riot grrrl you wish you sat next to in homeroom — and she’s building something real.
➝ Instagram: @brattyxbre_
➝ TikTok: @brattyxbre
➝ Shop Bre’s zines + art
➝ Support on Patreon
💌 Got a zine idea, a collab pitch, or just want to hype what Bre’s doing in your own way? Got your own ideas brewing? Pitch them to She Zine or tag @shezinemagazine — every voice builds the rebellion.
AXO (she/her) is a multidisciplinary creator, editor, and builder of feminist media ecosystems based in Toronto. She is the founder of She Zine Mag, Side Project Distro, BBLGM Club, and several other projects under the AXO&Co umbrella — each rooted in DIY culture, creative rebellion, and community care. Her work explores the intersection of craft, technology, and consciousness, with an emphasis on handmade ethics, neurodivergent creativity, and the politics of making. She is an advocate for accessible creativity and the power of small-scale cultural production to spark social change. Her practice merges punk, print, and digital media while refusing to separate the emotional from the practical. Above all, her work invites others to build creative lives that are thoughtful, defiant, and deeply handmade.
