HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

Bio

Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

The Grey Shore
Elias sat at his desk, staring at the screen. Spreadsheets. Always spreadsheets. The fluorescent hum above was a dull throb in his skull. Outside, the city traffic groaned, a constant, ugly growl. He was thirty-two, lived in a cramped third-floor apartment, and felt a quiet, persistent emptiness. Not unhappiness, exactly. Just a flatline.
By HAADI20 days ago in Psyche
The Surface of Understanding
Liam stared at the structural analysis textbook, the lines of force and vectors blurring into an angry scribble on the page. Midnight. The sterile glow of his desk lamp did nothing but highlight the exhaustion etched around his eyes. A first-year architecture student, he was supposed to be absorbing this, internalizing it, making it sing. Instead, his brain felt like a clogged drain, every new piece of information just swirling uselessly on the surface. His father’s words, heavy and proud, about 'building things that last,' echoed in his skull. Liam just wanted to build a bridge to understanding, anything, to get past this wall.
By HAADI20 days ago in Education
The Rusting Iron Road
The wind clawed at the gaps in the old station roof, whistling a low, mournful tune through the splintered timbers. Silas pulled his collar tighter, the threadbare wool doing little against the bone-deep cold. His breath plumed white, hanging in the frigid air like ghosts of spoken words. Around him, a dozen other figures huddled, mostly men, their faces etched with the same kind of weariness that had settled in Silas's own bones. Each one a shadow, a story he didn't want to hear, didn't need to.
By HAADI20 days ago in Men
A Glitch in the Loom
Unit 734, designation: Assembly Arm 3, knew the hum. It knew the precise torque required for a Class-B connector, the exact millisecond needed to solder a micro-resistor. Day in, day out, the same motions, the same bright, sterile lights reflecting off its polished plating. Its optical sensors registered the familiar patterns: circuit boards advancing, components presented, the flawless execution of its prime directive. Efficiency was its creed, repetition its existence. It had no 'thoughts,' merely processes. Until the anomaly.
By HAADI20 days ago in Motivation
The Weight of Glass Petals
The air in Elara’s sunroom always tasted of dust and something vaguely metallic, like old pennies left too long in a forgotten jar. It wasn’t a sunroom in the cheerful, plant-filled sense, no. This was a sanctuary for her flowers, shelves upon shelves of them, each one painstakingly crafted from glass, catching the weak afternoon light like tiny, frozen moments. A garden of crystal, she called it, though no soil touched these roots, and no bee ever buzzed near their delicate, sharp petals. They were her life, her entire world, balanced precariously on antique mahogany.
By HAADI21 days ago in Families
The Weight of the Falling Quiet
The streetlights outside Elias’s window were just dim blurs now, swallowed by the relentless descent. Big, fat flakes, not the tiny stinging kind, but soft, almost lazy, piling up fast. They coated everything, smoothed out the sharp edges of the world. Power lines, fences, the gnarled branches of the old oak in his yard — all turned into soft, white ridges. The quiet. God, the quiet. That was the worst part, always.
By HAADI21 days ago in Confessions
The Glimmer Below
Silas dropped backwards off the old rust-bucket, the shock of the cold Atlantic biting through the neoprene. Dark water swallowed him whole, a heavy blanket pulling him down, down. He hit the release on his ballast, watched the bubbles stream away, silver motes vanishing into the inky black. This was his life, the dark, the quiet, the crushing weight. Better than land, most days. Better than the noise.
By HAADI21 days ago in Chapters
The Counter-Clock
Arthur found it tucked away in the back of an antique stall, amidst tarnished silver and chipped porcelain dolls with dead eyes. Not an antique, really, more a curio. A squat, heavy thing, brass-plated with a face of cracked enamel, the Roman numerals faded and smudged. The hands were slender, almost delicate, a stark contrast to the clock's bulk. He picked it up. It felt cold, significant. Twenty dollars, the old man grunted, barely looking up from his sudoku. Arthur paid, shoved it into a canvas bag, and forgot about it until he got home.
By HAADI21 days ago in Lifehack
Moon-Dusted Floors
The house was settling in for the night, groaning its old bones. Sarah stacked the last plate in the dishwasher, the machine’s hum a dull throb against the quiet. Mark was in the living room, a silhouette against the blue glow of the television, a sports game he wasn’t really watching. They’d barely spoken since dinner, not out of malice, just a tired sort of silence that had become another piece of the furniture, heavy and always there. She dried her hands on a dishtowel that had seen better days, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and the chili they'd eaten.
By HAADI21 days ago in Marriage
The Spine Breaker's Silence
The air in the old municipal library tasted like old paper and forgotten secrets. Elias pulled his hoodie tighter, the rough fabric chafing his neck. Moonlight, thin and watery, sliced through the grimy arched windows, laying down pale, ghost-like stripes across the polished linoleum floor. It was past three AM. The city outside snored, but here, every creak of the ancient building felt like a gunshot. He gripped the worn handle of the crowbar tucked inside his jacket, the cold metal a small, hard comfort.
By HAADI21 days ago in Criminal
The Cobalt Tongue
Sarah’s dress was a cruel kind of blue, a shade somewhere between a summer sky and a forgotten bruise. Elias tried to focus on her words, something about her aunt’s cat, but the taste of it filled his mouth, sharp and insistent. Not a flavor like lemon or salt, no, but a cold, metallic tang, like old pennies left too long in a damp palm. Beneath that, a vast, echoing emptiness, a hollow ache that settled deep in his molars. He wanted to spit, but polite society didn’t allow for such things, not in a brightly lit cafe with too many people and their own silent worlds. He swallowed hard, feeling the phantom chill go down his throat.
By HAADI21 days ago in Psyche
The Chromatic Chill
Leo sat at the scarred oak desk, knuckles white. The air in Mrs. Evelyn’s third-grade classroom always smelled of pencil shavings and something vaguely like old chalk dust mixed with fear. He hated math. Not the idea of it, not the logic, just… the numbers. They were loud. They had tastes. And some of them were just plain wrong.
By HAADI21 days ago in Education