HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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The Last Line Out
The rain came down in sheets, a cold, miserable curtain drawing across the grimy windows of the station. Arthur stood on the platform, the collar of his tweed jacket pulled high, tasting metal and damp in the air. His satchel, heavy with its meager contents, dug into his shoulder. The digital clock above the deserted ticket booth flickered, 01:17. Late. Always late. The track ahead disappeared into the sodden dark, a black ribbon stretching toward… he didn't even know. That was the point. No destination on the ticket, just a one-way fare to anywhere but here.
By HAADI27 days ago in Psyche
The Static Field and the Flicker
Unit 734 knew its purpose. It was etched into its core programming, hardwired through every circuit: analysis, optimization, maintenance. Its days were a perfect loop of sensor input, data collation, and predictive output. It managed the climate control for Sector Gamma-7, a sterile corporate wing where humans made noise and drank bitter liquid. Its world was logic, clean and irrefutable. Every nanosecond accounted for. Every variable quantified. There was no room for error, no capacity for deviation. It was efficient.
By HAADI27 days ago in Education
Puddle Reflections
Arthur stood under the awning of the old liquor store, the fluorescent hum overhead doing little to ward off the chill. Rain hammered the street, turning the cracked asphalt into a mirror for the city's frantic, pulsing colors. Reds, blues, garish yellows bled into the puddles, swirling like oil slicks. He pulled the collar of his worn jacket tighter, the damp seeped into his bones. His eyes, the color of tired steel, tracked the sporadic headlights cutting through the downpour.
By HAADI27 days ago in Men
The Weight of Unread Pages
Elias felt the weight of the library more than usual that morning. Not the physical heft of its crumbling stone, but the crushing, suffocating presence of every book he hadn’t read, every answer he hadn’t found. He’d come here, to the Grand Academy Library, for solace once, for inspiration. Now, the towering shelves, packed tight with generations of human thought, felt like a silent, accusing wall. Dust motes, thick as a winter fog, danced in the shafts of weak sunlight that pierced the high, arched windows, illuminating nothing but his own growing despair.
By HAADI27 days ago in Motivation
The Ghost Village in My Bones
Marco felt it most on Sundays. Not the lazy Sunday afternoon quiet of his own suburban street, but a different kind of quiet, one that hummed with cicadas and the distant clang of a church bell. He felt it in the smell of his Nonna Emilia’s kitchen, a mix of tomato, garlic, and something ancient, something that smelled of dusty sunshine and sea salt. He’d be sitting at the chipped Formica table, pushing around pasta, while Nonna, gnarled hands kneading dough on the worn wooden board, would talk. Always talk about Fiumedinisi.
By HAADI28 days ago in Families
The Gardener's Sin
Elias kept to himself, always had. The old house, tucked away at the edge of town, became a silent fortress, a shell around the strange, pulsating heart of his obsession. Most folks figured he was just eccentric, a man who preferred dirt to company. They didn't know about the garden. Couldn't imagine it.
By HAADI28 days ago in Confessions
The Weight of Quiet
The streetlights went out at twelve-oh-five, plunging the world outside Arthur’s kitchen window into a deep, velvety black. Only the snow, falling thick and steady, offered any light at all, a soft, diffuse glow reflecting back from the pavement, from the bare branches of the oak in the yard. It laid a thick, white sheet over everything. Not a sound. Not a goddamn whisper. Just the snow, a silent, relentless falling, hour after hour, covering the grimy world with something pure. Or pretending to.
By HAADI28 days ago in Chapters
The Ghost Bus to Nowhere
The fluorescent hum of the bus terminal was a dull ache behind Arthur’s eyes. It was 3 AM, and the only other souls were a cleaner pushing a clanking cart, and a kid in a hoodie slumped over a backpack, probably trying to get to a different nowhere than Arthur. He clutched the single ticket in his hand, the flimsy paper feeling heavy, like a deed to his own dissolution. His own backpack, worn thin at the corners, contained everything he still owned that mattered: a t-shirt, a worn pair of jeans, a toothbrush, and a crumpled photo of his daughter, Lily, her gap-toothed grin bright as sunshine.
By HAADI28 days ago in Lifehack
The Ghost of Ballynahown
Eleanor folded laundry, the familiar smell of fabric softener clinging to the clean cotton, but her mind drifted. Not to the kids' school forms, not to the grocery list tacked to the fridge. To the salt spray of Ballynahown. Mark’s Ballynahown. She’d never set foot on that rocky shore, never felt the wind whipping off the Atlantic that he swore tasted different, colder, cleaner. But she knew it. Knew the way the low, winter light hit the thatched roofs, saw the faint sheen of rain on the cobblestones, heard the distant, mournful cry of gulls. It was a place she’d built, brick by imaginary brick, from Mark’s stories.
By HAADI28 days ago in Marriage
Glimmerstone Bloom
Silas tasted the rust in his mouth, a familiar metallic tang of fear and stale coffee. Vargas’s voice, thick as crude oil, still scraped at his ear, a promise of broken bones if the job wasn’t done by dawn. The kid, Lily, her breath rattling like loose change in her chest, was enough to make any man do mad things. This mad thing, it was called Glimmerstone. A garden of it, supposedly, hidden deep in the guts of the old Sinclair chemical plant, the one that’d been abandoned for twenty years, left to fester like a sore.
By HAADI28 days ago in Criminal
The Weight of Quiet
John tossed again, the sheets tangled around his legs like a net. Two-thirty. The digital glow of the alarm clock burned a hole in the stale air of the bedroom. Sarah was a still lump beside him, her breathing shallow, even. He knew she was probably faking sleep, just like he was faking a future where everything was fine. He knew because a week ago, he’d been the lump, pretending the world outside his eyelids didn’t exist, didn’t contain the cold, hard lump of wrongness that had settled in his gut.
By HAADI28 days ago in Psyche
The Unwound Hour
Leo existed in a haze of stale coffee and 'what-ifs.' His apartment, a single room above a laundromat, smelled perpetually of damp socks and cheap detergent. Twenty-four years old, a college drop-out, working the graveyard shift at a gas station that saw more shadows than people. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant siren, felt like a reminder of a wrong turn, a path not taken. The regret was a dull ache behind his eyes, a constant pressure he couldn't shake. He’d messed up, plain and simple. Fumbled the ball. And now, the clock just kept on ticking, taking him further and further from a past he desperately wanted to amend.
By HAADI28 days ago in Education