HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

Bio

Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

The Weight of Dust
Elias moved through the stacks like a ghost. Seventy-three years old, sixty of them spent in the hushed, cavernous belly of the city's archive. The air, thick and sweet with decay, smelled of parchment, leather, and a thousand forgotten lives. His hands, liver-spotted and gnarled, knew the spines of every book, the texture of every vellum leaf, the exact creak of every floorboard on the third floor, Section Beta, where the local histories slept. He'd shelved more books than most men had read, each one a silent witness to time’s relentless crawl.
By HAADI27 days ago in Men
The Rust-Kissed Sky
It tasted like cold, hard rain on a forgotten street, like the bottom of an empty well. That’s how Elias figured it, anyway. The color blue. Not the ocean blue, or the sky blue, but that specific, heavy blue that settles deep in your bones when everything you thought was solid just… isn’t. He hadn’t painted in months, not really. Just scraped at canvases, smeared mud-browns over tentative greens, then walked away. The studio smelled of old turpentine and stale grief, a scent he’d grown accustomed to, almost craved.
By HAADI27 days ago in Motivation
The Glare of the Sunken Eye
Rourke hated the pressure suit, the way it hugged his skin like a second, tighter corpse. Every breath a controlled hiss, every movement a fight against the inert weight of the ocean bearing down. Three clicks down, off the charted shelf. This wasn’t just a salvage job; it was a desperate plunge into the 'unconfirmed anomaly' the old charts vaguely hinted at. A whisper of something too big, too regular, to be natural. A whisper of glass.
By HAADI28 days ago in Horror
The Circuitous Nocturne
The air in Vance’s workshop was thick with the scent of ozone, stale coffee, and something metallic, like burnt sugar. Dust motes danced in the lone beam of light slicing through the grimy window, illuminating a chaos of tools, coiled wires, and schematics pinned to a corkboard like ancient warnings. At the center of it all stood Unit 7, a hulking monument to Elias Vance’s singular obsession. It wasn't sleek, not by a long shot. Rivets held panels of dull grey steel together, its 'face' a grid of blinking indicator lights, its internal workings a visible tangle of vacuum tubes that glowed with a soft, pulsing warmth.
By HAADI28 days ago in History
The Indigo of Winter
Leo knew blue. Not just saw it, he tasted it. A deep, resonant thrum on his tongue, shifting with every shade. The faded denim of Dad’s work jacket, that was a metallic sort of tang, like old coins left out in the rain. The clear, sharp blue of a winter sky, that was cool water, quick and clean. But then there was *her* blue. Grandma’s blue. It was everywhere this Christmas, a year after she’d gone, clinging to everything and nothing.
By HAADI28 days ago in Families
The Weight of White Silence
The snow fell like ash, thick and quiet, eating every sound the city usually made. It was past two in the morning. Arthur stood by the kitchen window, a mug of cold coffee forgotten on the counter. His breath fogged the glass, a ghostly smear against the endless white. Outside, the streetlights cast long, distorted shadows of snow-laden branches, and the world was utterly, unnervingly still. Not a car. Not a dog. Just the whisper of flakes hitting the pane, a sound so soft it only emphasized the hollow space inside his skull.
By HAADI28 days ago in Confessions
The Ochre Dust
Elena, eighty-something, smelled of lavender and old paper, like pressed flowers and forgotten letters. Her stories, though. Those were fresh, vibrant things, full of sun and grit and the taste of the earth. She’d sit in the worn armchair, the velvet faded to a dull rose, bony hands tracing patterns on her lap, eyes staring out the window but seeing something else entirely. Not the cracked pavement of the city street below, but something much older, much further away. "The piazza in August," she’d start, her voice raspy, dry as the summer air she spoke of, "dust red as blood, kicked up by every donkey cart and bare foot. Always a dog, a scruffy mongrel, sleeping under the olive tree by the fountain, belly up. Too hot to even swat the fat flies buzzing lazy circles around its head."
By HAADI28 days ago in Chapters
The Unwound Hour
Elias felt like a broken record, skipping over the same worn groove, day in, day out. His life, a relentless march forward, always forward, always toward some new deadline, some fresh disappointment. The alarm blared at five-thirty, a jolt, not a wake-up. More like a punch to the gut. Another day. Another hundred emails. Another argument waiting in the wings with Maria about the overdue bills. He’d stare at the digital clock on his nightstand, the numbers blazing red, a countdown. Always a countdown.
By HAADI28 days ago in Lifehack
The Weight of White
Mark couldn’t sleep. He’d tried, for what felt like hours, turning from his left side to his right, punching the pillow into submission, then giving up on it entirely. Sarah was a quiet mound beside him, her breathing even, deep. A faint, silver light seeped in through the gaps in the curtains. Not the moon, not streetlights. Something else. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet finding the cool wood floor with a soft thud.
By HAADI28 days ago in Marriage
Puddle Light
The rain didn’t let up. It just kept coming, a cold, relentless sheet sluicing down the dirty brick, overflowing the gutters, turning every crack in the pavement into a shallow river. Leo hunched deeper into his worn leather jacket, the collar pulled tight around his ears, doing nothing to stop the chill that had settled deep in his bones. The corner dive bar, ‘The Rusty Nail,’ glowed in the distance, its garish red and blue sign smeared across the slick asphalt, a pulsing wound of light. Each reflection in the puddles seemed to wobble, distort, just like everything else in his life.
By HAADI28 days ago in Criminal
The Reverse Tick
Mr. Elias Thorne’s classroom always smelled of chalk dust and resignation. He was a history teacher, fifty-six years old, and had the kind of slump in his shoulders that suggested the weight of all recorded human folly rested squarely there. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, constant complaint above his head. His tweed jacket, a permanent fixture, had frayed cuffs that seemed to unravel with each passing year, much like his own enthusiasm.
By HAADI28 days ago in Psyche
The Weight of Unsent Ink
The clock digits burned red: 3:17 AM. Leo squinted, his eyes gritty from the screen, from the stacks of books threatening to avalanche his desk. Another day bled into another night, and the blank page of his thesis introduction still mocked him. Dr. Sharma's last email, a short, clipped thing, had landed two days ago: 'Leo, your progress is insufficient. We need a clear direction by Friday. If not, we must reconsider your candidacy.' Reconsider his candidacy. That wasn't an academic term; that was a death sentence. For two years he'd eaten, slept, and breathed Byzantine history, and now it was all crumbling, turning to dust in his hands.
By HAADI28 days ago in Education