Welcome to Victor Hannibal's portfolio.

Large Pixel Art Pieces


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© Victor Hannibal 2020 - 2022. All rights reserved. Do not redistribute these works without permission.

Emojis, Icons, Smaller Character Pieces of Pixel Art


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© Victor Hannibal 2020 - 2022. All rights reserved. Do not redistribute these works without permission.

Digital Drawings


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© Victor Hannibal 2020 - 2022. All rights reserved. Do not redistribute these works without permission.

About Victor Hannibal


V.H. is a writer and pixel artist living in the UK and specialising in horror works. He has been working as a freelance artist since 2015, but has been making pixel art since age twelve. He is currently branching out further into indie gamedev, and the zine publishing scene.

Outside of work, he likes to read, enjoys video games, and runs the Deadly Premonition fan Discord Server: Friendly Premonition.

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© Victor Hannibal 2020 - 2022. All rights reserved. Do not redistribute these works without permission.

Zine Contributions


Writer

Hauntings Zine (@HauntingsZine) ................................ Short Story
Bent Up (@KanjiZine) ........................................... Short Story
From Grandpa's Farm (lbproductions) ............................ Short Story
Welcome to Wolverton Manor (@SlurpeeDemon) ..................... Short Story
Carpe Noctem (@carpenoctemzine) ................ Short Story / Written Merch
What Lies Beneath? (bluebois200) ............................... Short Story
Oh Boy, Monsters! (@monsterboyzine) ............................ Short Story
Tripping the Zine Fantastic (trippingthewrite) ................. Short Story
Dream for the Dead (@mcrerazine) ............................... Short Story


Artist / Merch

Love's Encounter (@thezinearcana) .................. Two Double-Sided Charms
Bent Up (@KanjiZine) .......................... Art Page / Stickers / Emojis
We Are Alive (@DBHzineWAA) .................... Art Page / Stickers / Prints
Questions Zine Issue 1 (questionszine) ............................ Art Page
From Grandpa's Farm (lbproductions) ............................... Art Page
HappiHallo Zine (@happihallo) ..................................... Art Page
Paranormalcy (@vinegarzines) ............................. Art Page / Emojis
In the Streets of Color (@StreetsOfZine) .......................... Art Page
Sunny Side (@aneggzine) ........................................... Art Page
Oh Boy, Monsters! (@monsterboyzine) ........................ Sticker / Print
Brand New Days (@personacamping) .................................. Art Page
HappiHallo (2) Zine (@happihallo) ................................. Art Page
Window to Worlds 2 (@windowtoworlds) .............................. Art Page
Way to Blue (@Waytobluezine) ............................. Art Page / Emojis
Matilda^2 (N/A) ................................................... Art Page
Object Head Zine (@ObjectHeadZine) ................................ Art Page
Beyond the Garden (@YummiGummiZines) ................................. Icons
With The Stars & Us (@thezinearcana) ........... Double-Sided Charm / Emojis


Mod

What Lies Beneath? (bluebois200) ..................... Graphics Mod / Layout
Paranormalcy (@vinegarzines) ................... Head Mod / Layout / Finance
Poetry Corner (@litclubzine) .................... Graphics Mod / General Mod
The World Beyond (@WorldBeyondZine) ............. Graphics Mod / General Mod
Sanguis (@rpghorror_zine) .......................................... Art Mod
What Should We Do With Your Body? (@vinegarzines) ........ Head Mod / Layout
Morphogenesis (@morphogenzine) ............. Graphics Mod / Social Media Mod


Running Total: 29 Zines

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© Victor Hannibal 2020-2022. All rights reserved. Do not redistribute these works without permission.

Fiction Writing Extracts

Content Warning! These extracts come from my various short stories, novellas, and narrative games, many of which are horror works. As such, some of the content may be unsettling.


His sour-faced indifference to what he was doing calmed me, in an odd way, and I stood in the doorway and watched. He opened a drawer, ignoring the thin finger of blood seeping down his arm, and withdrew one of the fox teeth he had claimed over the summer. : Autophobia

-

Nearly a dozen people had disappeared, snatched from the streets and taken without a trace. Those that had been found again had not had much to say for themselves. The first of the missing to reappear had turned up face down in a sand dune, his hair swirling like seaweed in the tide waters. The other three who had emerged had been just as dead, placed purposefully along the coast like eggs laid out for Easter.

-

Overladen with flies and flecks of ichor, sick, or handprints pressed into the surface of the still-fresh food, the feast laid out like a lurid offering to lost gods. What would have been a banquet for wannabes and spoiled sycophants, forgotten tomorrow in favour of another offering, transformed into last meal, last sight, last lingering testament to the beautiful evening they thought they deserved. Insects squirm on sandwiches, soak in wine worth thousands, lay eggs on hors d'oeuvres that never graced the hands now holding for dear, lost life to doorknobs all across the room.

-

If I told you I met the devil, and that that was the high point of this story, would you hear me out? The turning points in your life are never what you expect. As a child, meeting the devil face to face was probably my greatest fear. Through my teens and twenties, I can tell you it felt like a godsend. Now, I don’t know. I’ll let you decide.

-

When I died the first time, I met the review board. They were very condescending about me, about my so-called success. Not that that was the main focus of my attention. As hard as it is to hold onto memories of my old lives, I can recall that room with almost perfect clarity. Every time I’ve been there, it stays with me. The lofty heads, clicking unseen tongues, droning words down at me in an unknown, and perfectly clear, language. Shaped like birds. The closest I can get to describing it has them shaped like birds. : Autophobia

-

During croquet games with his cousins as a child, hovering around the ankles of the family elders, trying to unpick the tricky words in books above his age range, Charlie had heard the stories in whispers. Like most old families, his adored festooning themselves in ancient gossip. Drawing the skeletons out of their closets to dance with after dinner.

-

They looked straight through me as they lifted objects off the shelves. Their head turned freely and wildly about their neck like a film camera come loose from its stand. : Autophobia

-

Doomed guests falling like flies, noticing it’s not just them as the bodies begin to fill the floor. If they still can, they stampede for the doors, smashing fists to strawberry jam as they jerk and squirm with the last of their life. Dead bodies blocking doors like draft excluders. A problem for people who tried to leave too late. Weakness overwhelming them, no pushing past the piles to pry open an exit. No escape.

-

Everywhere I turn, I am haunted by myself. Things I have lost, forgotten, or never even thought about. Nails, spit, tangled hair, and bloody tissues. And still no people. Not a single soul to be seen.: Autophobia

-

We come from the same place, and I want you to remember that. We come from violence, but we graduated different. You had people to hold your hands, wash your face. You could have had what I had. You could have been me. I want you to remember that. I want you to know how close we came to wearing each other’s clothes.

-

He sees some firelighters out of my line of sight and yells out 'make that sauce wetter, fella!', a phrase that has no right to make me laugh the way it does. A call back to earlier conversations. The snake of our friendship eating its tail as we travel back through bullshit that made us laugh two years ago. Tom never forgets anything. : You Don't Know Tom Anymore

-

A metal sign pointing away from the village and up a narrow path gave a simple direction: Mountain Walk. So, I did. The pathway coiled around the mountain like a wedding ring. I found myself pressed close against the rocky wall of the spire, all my attention focused on staying steady. So much so that I almost tripped when something suddenly came underfoot. It was a sneaker. Small, the length of my hand.

-

That game was the house where our friendship was born, the home it grew up in. Even loading it up now, there’s that comfy, cereal for dinner sensation that makes me feel like a kid again. Just lasts a minute. Seems even here, I can’t stay calm. : You Don't Know Tom Anymore

-

I can hear them. Whatever’s out there. I’ve twisted myself about looking, but they’re hiding in that starless night that my torch beam cannot breach. The only hint I have that they’re there is a distant groaning that never seems to fade away. There’s no sense of direction. It’s everywhere and nowhere. It’s a thousand miles away, but it’s whispering inside my ear. : Autophobia

-

My father didn’t say a single word to me after that. He would grunt occasionally for attention, but that was all. He may well have forgotten how to speak. I would often see him only once a day. His presence was strongest in the way things moved around the house. Dirty mugs vanished from the kitchen table and showed up clean. A weasel caught outside would go suddenly silent. The baby teeth I put beside my bed were never seen again. : Autophobia

-

As a species, we’ve done so much. We looked out at the stars as a collective child with a spoon paused at her lips and thought ‘we can go there’. And I suppose that’s true, that together we’re the strongest force in the universe, that we can do anything. But I can’t. Those people who sent us here by mistake couldn’t. I wish there was a window so I could see the stars. I am the first human to ever visit this part of space, I realise. Thinking of it, I can't believe that humanity was capable of this. It's not good, it's not bad, it's not moral. It's just impressive, on the technical level, that I’m here, standing in an undiscovered part of a universe that wanted to bury me two hundred years ago. Humanity can control the universe. But I am not humanity, I am just one human, and I am not strong. I am all alone. : Autophobia

-

Time goes by and Tom disappears into code and pixels. His voice, his face, even the fingerprint painting surface of his glasses are all turning Vaseline hazy in my head. He’s fine online, but in the flesh he’s forgotten about me. : You Don't Know Tom Anymore

-

Chops was down in the dirt, on his knees, brushing away with the patience of a much better man. His efforts were paying off. The long bones of the neck were starting to come into view, standing out in the sunlight like slabs of butter. As Chase caught sight of them, they became crystals, catching the light and spinning it out into an opal of colours. The glitter effect never got old. No-one had yet been able to adequately explain why these pseudo-sea monsters had such a shine, skin to bone.

-

“You don’t need to be afraid. Nothing is going to happen to you.” At this point, I still thought I was talking to a human being. I was tired, and young enough to believe that this was the doctor’s strange way of telling me that I was getting better.

“Nothing is going to happen to everyone.” The doctor shifted, just outside the glow of my tiny reading light. Moving, laughing, retching. I couldn’t tell.

-

She rolled over onto her back, seaweed-knot locks spreading out around her shoulders, causing ripples in the water. The sun was almost cool, compared to her surroundings. Nothing else could survive in the frying pan of the hot spring, but this was her backyard. The perfect place for a creature that fed itself fat on human stupidity. She turned onto her stomach, making out the streaked oil paint swirls of melting skin and muscle, before bringing her hand to her mouth again, and smiling. The higher above the world they felt they were, the better they tasted when they were brought crashing down to earth.

-

Eric thought how terribly symmetrical Frederick’s face was. Far too much so, on second glance. What was appealing at first became unsettling when observed closely. Frederick’s delicate face and soft features did not match the aura he projected at all. Eric felt, with a sudden jolt, that his face had been painted on. That it was not his, but rather copied from some book of renaissance darlings. Cherubic features made a mockery of when stretched over his unfitting skeleton.

-

I discovered that Anna had been murdered, and her body left on the floor of the supermarket, beside the till. One foot was lying sadly on the automatic door panel, which quietly and insistently beeped over and over again as if calling out for help. : Autophobia

-

Where I’m standing now, the edge of this deep-sea cliff face, less people have been here than have walked on the surface of the moon. I’m so deep underwater, the moon seems close. Some people would be happy to die here, just to say they were here at all. Not me. I want to live. : Autophobia

-

The news is trying to sell you something, and people read it looking to buy. Attention-grabbing titles to articles telling you where you should and should not go. That’s what people were starting to say about the mountain lake. Going there alone meant you’d end up gone for good. They’re betting on you giving up after the headline. Something that sounds scary in 48pt typeface loses momentum when you check the sources.

-

“Oh, they’re not letting them near it,” he said, and his smirk wilted away like a piece of burning plastic. Like this part bothered him. “Since the first couple of deaths, the police have had the place under constant watch. It hasn’t mattered. The girls still find a way to get inside. They’re dead by the time they’re found. No-one has any idea how they get past the guard, so they’ve been keeping it as quiet as possible.”

-

It could pass for a dinosaur skull, if it weren’t for that glimmer. That unearthly uncertainty, the sign of a substance from somewhere beyond what people were used to.

-

More than a bruise. More than a broken bone. And the rehabilitation runs far deeper than taking some steps across the room. You can’t fix your brain by forcing it forward, the way you can trick your legs into working after an accident. Maybe you can’t fix it at all, not ever, if what happened was bad enough.

-

You only need to be notable to your next life, not the one after that. This is partly because they expect people to have one or two lives at most. Nothing is memorable for all time. Even Shakespeare will fade eventually. Not me, by the way, but whoever that was, I hope they’re still playing. I don’t know how many people there are left who’ve been playing as long as I have, but based on how the review board reacts to me each time I die, I’d say not too many. It makes sense. This is a hard game to play. And that’s before we get into how they like to start cheating after a few dozen losses. : Autophobia

-

Every time it happens, it takes me back, and I’m consumed by a coma where memories play on movie screens. I have to fight to find myself again. Like now, when I realise I haven’t moved in a long time. Standing, legs locked, in a busy street, with people starting to stare.

-

Standing still, with the mist thickening and sticking to him like sweat, Edmund considered his options. He could return home, creep back into bed, and fall asleep waiting for another day exactly like today to begin again. He could walk around some more, painfully aware of the bark that formed the bars of his cell on all sides. Or, instead, the only other option, the one he was always too afraid to explore.

-

Bad enough how needy I was for her attention when we were all still skinned knees and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Innocent. Past that point, as age added to my experience, I noticed more things in her smile than I had before. Friendship was no longer the first thought when we were together. Instead, I spent my time watching her suck blackberry juice from her fingers, wondering what it would be like if it wasn’t like this. If it was more.

-

It’s what hitting the floor feels like. That’s what he said over the phone. Like hitting the floor from a hundred stories high.
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© Victor Hannibal 2020-2022. All rights reserved. Do not redistribute these works without permission.