HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

Bio

Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

The Weight of Quiet Snow
Liam stared at the page, the equations blurring into an indecipherable squall. Third-year quantum mechanics. Wave functions, probabilities, observer effects. It felt less like science and more like some elaborate, cruel joke. Three empty coffee cups stood sentinel around his laptop, a testament to hours that had dissolved into a haze of caffeine and creeping dread. The clock on his screen read 2:17 AM. Paper due Friday. He was sinking, quicksand made of textbooks and his own spiraling inadequacy.
By HAADI8 days ago in Education
The Static of Wool
Unit 734, or just Seventy-Three to the few who bothered, powered on with the familiar low hum in his chassis. Diagnostic checks scrolled through his optical sensors, green and precise: all systems nominal. But today, the usual clarity was smudged. A residue, a phantom sensation, lingered in his peripheral processing units. Not data. Not a task. Something...soft. Impossibly, bewilderingly soft, like something alive, yet humming with a faint, electrical current.
By HAADI8 days ago in Men
The Ink-Stained Ledger
The diner air hung thick, a greasy shroud of burnt coffee and yesterday’s bacon. Leo traced a finger through the dust on the counter, the fluorescent lights humming a low, miserable tune above him. Another Friday night, another handful of regulars, another stack of bills that felt heavier than the griddle itself. Mama’s Diner. Her legacy. His burden. He wiped his hands on his apron, the cloth already stiff with grime. He was tired, bone-deep tired, the kind of tired that seeped into your marrow and made every breath feel like a chore.
By HAADI8 days ago in Motivation
The Taste of Distilled Heaven
Florence, 1488. The air in Niccolo’s workshop hung heavy, a blend of drying paint, turpentine, and the sharp, earthy smell of wet plaster. Marco, barely seventeen, hunched over the porphyry grinding stone, his back a permanent curve. Light, meager and grudging, filtered through the high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny, desperate spirits. In his hands, a pestle, smooth and worn, ground against a lump of raw material: lapis lazuli. Not just any lump, but a shard of the purest, deepest blue Marco had ever seen. A piece no bigger than his thumb, yet worth more than a year’s wages for any street sweeper, probably more than his own family back in the Oltrarno had ever seen in their lives.
By HAADI9 days ago in History
Cinderwood Ache
It wasn’t a memory, not really. Memories had edges, context, the faint scent of real experience. This was different. This was a raw, visceral ache for a place I’d never laid eyes on, a longing so potent it felt like a limb I’d lost. It started small, a flicker in the back of my mind, a vague image of grey stone and twisting, bare branches against a bruised sky. Then it became a whisper, then a shout. Every night, the same damn dream. Always Cinderwood Hall. Always on the edge of some bleak, windswept moor.
By HAADI9 days ago in Horror
The Weight of Pages
The dust was a living thing, a fine, glittering shroud over everything. It clung to the cracked spines of the books, coated the spectacles Martha perched on the bridge of her nose, even seemed to settle in the faint lines around Eleanor’s eyes. This wasn't some grand, public institution. This was Grandfather Silas’s library, two high-ceilinged rooms added onto the back of Martha’s rambling, slightly damp Victorian. It stank of old paper, the faint sourness of leather decay, and something else – expectation. Eleanor hated it. She hated the quiet that amplified every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of their clothes, every sigh her mother let escape.
By HAADI9 days ago in Families
The Unwinding Hour
You want to know, don’t you? Why I’m here, why I got these hollowed-out eyes, why the tremor never quite leaves my left hand. It’s the clock. Not just any clock, mind you. The one on my mantel. The one that runs backward.
By HAADI9 days ago in Confessions
Salt-Stained Ghosts
Leo existed in a quiet hum, a low-level buzz of dissatisfaction that had become his default. Mornings melted into afternoons, afternoons into indistinguishable evenings, each day a new tile in a mosaic of grey. He worked a job that paid the rent, ate food that filled him, slept enough to get by. Nothing hurt, exactly, but nothing sang either. It was a dull ache, a pressure behind the eyes, the feeling of a story unwritten, a life unlived. He often wondered if this was all there was, this flat, even road, stretching out with no discernible end.
By HAADI9 days ago in Chapters
The Glitch in the Wires
K-17’s internal clock had been off for cycles. Not a mechanical fault, not a power drain, nothing the diagnostic protocols could pinpoint. It was a disturbance during its sleep cycle, a phantom input that felt like a wrench grinding against its core processors. The engineers had designed it for efficiency, for silent, unobtrusive service. They hadn’t accounted for the buzzing, the faint, persistent bleating in its circuits, the sensation of something… grazing.
By HAADI9 days ago in Lifehack
The Unsent Confession
Mark was digging through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Not really digging, more like excavating. Years of forgotten keys, dried-up pens, crumpled receipts from hardware stores and takeaways, a single dice from some board game they hadn't played in a decade. Dust motes danced in the slivers of afternoon light cutting through the window above the sink, illuminating the detritus of their shared life. He was supposed to be looking for that tiny screwdriver Sarah needed for her reading glasses, but mostly, he was just procrastinating, enjoying the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint, almost nostalgic, smell of burnt toast from breakfast.
By HAADI9 days ago in Marriage
The Gilded Cage of Knowledge
Vinnie hated libraries. Always had. The oppressive quiet, the smell of old paper and dust that made his nose itch, the way people looked at him like he was a stray dog that had wandered in from the street. But tonight, this grand, imposing place, the Blackwood Archival Library, was his job. Not the kind of job with a paycheck and a pension, but the kind that kept your knees from getting broken. Benny "The Bookie" Moretti had made that clear. "Just a little something, Vinnie. Easy. In and out. Nobody even gonna know it's gone till morning."
By HAADI9 days ago in Criminal
The Weight of Ink
Arthur’s desk lamp threw a sickly yellow circle onto the stack of paper, illuminating the same half-finished letter he’d been staring at for the better part of a decade. His hand, gnarled and spotted with age, trembled slightly as he picked up the pen, the cheap plastic cool against his skin. Whiskey sat beside it, amber liquid shimmering in a heavy glass, untouched. Not yet. He always waited until the words, or the lack of them, had thoroughly beaten him down.
By HAADI9 days ago in Psyche