HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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A Chromatic Palate
The taste of the color blue. It wasn't a sweet taste, never that. Nor sour, not exactly. It was more like the cold, hard tang of old steel, left out in the rain too long, then brought inside to slowly rust. Frank knew it well, a persistent whisper on the back of his tongue, especially when the highway stretched out before him, a black ribbon swallowed by a night so deep it felt like an ocean. The truck, his old Freightliner, rumbled beneath him, a familiar beast, its cabin smelling of stale coffee, diesel, and thirty years of his own sweat.
By HAADI28 days ago in Men
The Glitch in the Green
Unit 734 polished chrome. Its optical sensors registered the microscopic dust motes, its articulated arm moved with precision, a practiced arc across the gleaming surface of the server rack. Every cycle, every sweep, every nanosecond accounted for, logged, optimized. Its primary directive: maintain environmental integrity, ensure optimal operational parameters. The air in Sector Gamma was always a crisp 21.3 degrees Celsius, humidity at 45.1%. Sterile. Predictable. It moved through the endless corridors of the data center, a silent, chrome-plated ghost, its internal chronometer ticking off another shift.
By HAADI28 days ago in Motivation
Puddle Light
The rain was a cold, insistent whisper against Sarah's collar, clinging to the strands of her hair. It ran in dirty rivulets down the brick walls of the diner they’d just left, blurring the harsh yellow glow of the 'OPEN' sign. Tom walked a step ahead, his shoulders hunched, the cheap umbrella doing little to keep the wind from whipping droplets onto his back. He didn’t offer to share it. Not really. Just held it over his own head, a silent, flimsy barrier between him and the night, between him and her.
By HAADI29 days ago in Marriage
The Gilded Silence
The air in the Great Hall of the Sterling Library always tasted of old paper and dust, a bittersweet scent Elias used to love. Tonight, it was just bitter. Every breath caught in his throat, dry and ragged. Two hours past closing, and the silence pressed down, thick as grave dirt. The polished oak floors, usually bustling, now echoed the frantic thump of his own heart. He moved like a shadow, a ghost of the scholar he once was, a man who belonged here, now only a thief.
By HAADI29 days ago in Criminal
The Elmira Falls Express
The ticket, creased and clammy in his palm, felt like a warrant for his own vanishing. Elmira Falls, it read, in faded black ink. Elmira Falls. He didn’t know anyone there. Hadn't even looked it up. Just saw the name on a crumpled map tacked to a bulletin board in the station, a name small enough, forgotten enough, to promise nothing. Nothing was what he was after, or maybe, everything he had left to offer.
By HAADI29 days ago in Psyche
The Ghost in the Margins
Elias felt the weight of the institution press down on him, a heavy, velvet cloak he hadn't earned. His scholarship, a thin thread, tied him to this grand, cold place, to the towering ceilings of the university's main library. January wind howled outside, rattling the ancient panes, but inside, a deeper chill settled in his bones. He stared at the blank page on his notebook, then at the wall of books before him. Hundreds of thousands of minds, packed spine-to-spine, silently judging his empty head, his fumbling efforts to grasp what they all knew.
By HAADI29 days ago in Education
The Backward Tick
Arthur didn't notice it at first. Not really. The old grandfather clock, Thomas's clock, had stood in the corner of the living room for fifty years, ticking with the measured, steady rhythm of a man who knew his place. It had been his father’s; a hulking, dark oak beast, a wedding gift from a cousin in the old country. When Thomas died, the clock just kept on, a constant presence, a silent sentinel in the house Arthur now rattled around in alone. For weeks after the funeral, Arthur had barely heard it, lost in the fuzzy quiet of grief and cheap whiskey.
By HAADI29 days ago in Men
The Shard-Feathered Goose
Silas Thorne’s hands, gnarled as mangrove roots, traced the faded charts. Salt spray had long since bled the color from the paper, but the deep trench marked ‘Hades’ remained a dark, unwavering scar across the blue. Years, decades really, he’d spent chasing whispers, half-baked legends of a city of crystal, sunk off the coast of whatever forgotten island. Every dime, every friend, every shred of his reputation had gone into this mad pursuit. His wife, bless her weary soul, finally just packed a bag one morning, leaving a note that read, 'Some things aren't meant to be found, Silas. You'll only lose yourself trying.' She was right, mostly. He’d lost a lot, but not himself. Not yet.
By HAADI29 days ago in Motivation
The Scriptorium's Breath
In halls of hushed antiquity, where dust motes dance in gold, A silent symphony resides, stories untold, yet bold. Through towering shelves of shadowed wood, where ages softly sleep,
By HAADI29 days ago in Poets
Shattered Depths
The pressure readout on the console flickered, a nervous tic in the absolute blackness outside. Ten thousand feet. Marcus felt it in his teeth, a dull ache that wasn't just physical. Beside him, Lena adjusted her comms, her face a pale oval in the dim glow of the instruments. Her knuckles were white on the armrest, a quiet admission of the knife-edge they rode. "Ready for the deploy, Marcus?" Her voice, a steady current through the static, tried for casual. She failed. He heard the tremor.
By HAADI29 days ago in Horror
Moon-Drawn Steps
The night air bit at the stone walls of the cottage, a damp, cutting chill that seeped into everything. Máire sat by the banked fire, pretending to mend a tear in a flour sack, but her eyes kept flicking to the window, a dark rectangle against the oppressive gloom outside. Loughrea wasn't far, but out here, on the edge of the bog, the world felt swallowed by the long, heavy silence after sundown. Curfew meant little to the land, but everything to the people. Every creak of the old timbers, every whistle of the wind through the cracks, sounded like a patrol boot on the lane, or worse, a shout.
By HAADI29 days ago in History
Wet Glow
Frank rubbed at his temple, the cheap coffee from the gas station still hot but doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Rain had finally let up, but the streets outside were black mirrors, catching every lurid flash from the liquor store sign, the blinking neon of the late-night diner. Ten past midnight. Leo was late. Again. The wipers on his beat-up Ford Escort made a sad, rhythmic thwack-scrape, like a worn-out heart.
By HAADI29 days ago in Families