HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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The Archivist's Burden
The air in the Grand Reading Room always felt thin, even at midday, but tonight, past closing, it was a chokehold. Elias moved through the hushed expanse, his footsteps absorbed by the thick Persian rugs that had outlasted generations of scholars. Every oak shelf, every towering stack, seemed to lean in, heavy with unspoken histories, with the weight of paper and time. He was a creature of habit, an archivist by trade, but tonight wasn't about cataloging the past. Tonight was about burying it deeper, or maybe, finally, unearthing it.
By HAADI29 days ago in Confessions
The Weight of Unsent Words
The kitchen light hummed, a lonely yellow against the deep indigo outside. Arthur’s knuckles, gnarled and scarred from decades of fixing things that always seemed to break, pressed hard against the cheap linoleum of the table. Before him, a single sheet of paper, already crinkled at the edges, lay under the pale glow. The ballpoint pen, a freebie from the local hardware store, felt heavy in his trembling hand. It was past midnight. The air hung thick with the smell of stale coffee and the ghost of regret.
By HAADI29 days ago in Chapters
The Unsent Ink
Arthur, hunched over the Formica counter, the faint smell of stale coffee and something vaguely chemical clinging to the air from last night's dinner. Another Tuesday, another list of tasks he didn't wanna do. But this one, this new item scrawled on a yellow legal pad, it kept gnawing at him: "Write to Mark." Not an email. A real letter. Like, with a pen.
By HAADI29 days ago in Lifehack
The Unwinding Hour
Sarah found the grandfather clock more of an obstacle than an antique, its dark, brooding presence a permanent fixture in their too-small living room. It was Mark’s inheritance, a hulking oak beast that had swallowed up half the light from the bay window for twenty years, chiming with an irritating, slightly off-key bong every quarter hour. Or, it used to. For the last five years, it had stood silent, a mausoleum for time, its hands frozen at a permanent 3:47. She’d stopped noticing it, really. It was just part of the furniture, like the stain on the rug under Mark’s favorite armchair, or the way he always left his coffee cup by the sink instead of in it.
By HAADI29 days ago in Marriage
Shattered Light
The pressure groaned against the hull of the *Stingray*, a living thing fighting to collapse us. Mitch pressed his face to the viewport, the thick glass distorting the inky blackness. Outside, it was pure, suffocating void, broken only by the sub's cutting spotlights. "Two thousand fathoms," Lena's voice crackled, tight as a drum, through the comms. "Holding steady. For now."
By HAADI29 days ago in Criminal
The Last Stop
The ticket, a flimsy rectangle of cardstock, felt like a branding iron in Arthur's palm. Midnight Express to Oakhaven, it read, in faded, almost apologetic print. But Arthur knew better. This wasn't Oakhaven, not really. This was the last train to nowhere, a clanking coffin on rails destined for the deepest pits of his own making. The station, a forgotten relic of brick and soot, offered no comfort. Just a cold, biting wind that tasted of rust and stale promises, gnawing at his coat, digging into the hollows of his bones.
By HAADI29 days ago in Psyche
The Backward Tick
Elias sat on the edge of his worn couch, the late afternoon sun a thin, dusty stripe across the linoleum floor. Another shift at the warehouse, another ten hours of moving boxes, of feeling his youth seep out through his pores with every bead of sweat. He was twenty-nine, and the closest thing he had to a career was the faint smell of cardboard that clung to his clothes. He thought about the college classes he'd dropped, the half-finished novel on his hard drive, the promises he'd made to himself that felt like ancient history. The clock on his phone, 4:17 PM, felt like a cruel joke, each tick a reminder of what was slipping away.
By HAADI29 days ago in Education
The Gutter's Glare
Frank pulled the collar of his worn jacket tighter, the fabric rasping against his stubbled chin. Rain had been coming down for hours, a relentless, cold sheet that slicked the cracked asphalt and made the city shimmer with a greasy sheen. He wasn't going anywhere in particular, just away. Away from the stale air of his efficiency apartment, away from the silence that felt louder than any argument. The streetlights, the garish neon signs of the pawn shop, the greasy spoon diner, and the adult bookstore, all bled into the overflowing gutters, their colors warping into liquid smears of red, blue, green, and a sickly yellow.
By HAADI29 days ago in Men
The Weight of Ink and Dust
The air in the Scriptoria Wing tasted like old paper and forgotten breaths. Elara knew it intimately, the grit of it on her tongue, the way it settled in her hair even after a shower. Three years, she'd spent here, and the last six months felt like she'd been pulling a boulder up a greased hill with a frayed shoelace. Her dissertation, 'The Socio-Economic Impact of Late Republican Grain Laws,' sat open on the oak table, a monument to blankness more than anything else.
By HAADI29 days ago in Motivation
The Muffled War
Arthur’s breath hitched, a ragged white cloud dissolving into the black that was the Western Front, winter of '16. The cold had a grip that clawed deep into his bones, past the threadbare wool of his greatcoat, past the layers of lice-ridden tunic, right into the marrow. He shifted his weight, trying to coax feeling back into his feet, jammed tight into boots that had seen too much mud, too much blood. The trench wall behind him, a mess of sandbags and frozen earth, offered no comfort. Just the smell. Always the smell. Rot, damp wool, cordite, fear. Tonight, though, a new scent was creeping in, clean and sharp, like something remembered from a world long gone.
By HAADIabout a month ago in History
The Moon-Dusted Path
The bell tolled, a dull clang against the thick, humid air, and Elara’s shoulders slumped, not in surrender, but in a weary acknowledgement of another day’s end. Her fingers, calloused and stained with the day’s cotton, curled into her palm. The sun, a brutal orange eye, was finally dipping below the tree line, painting the sky in colors too beautiful for the ugly work it oversaw. Sweat trickled down her spine, a familiar companion, but tonight, a different kind of itch stirred beneath her skin, a restless thrumming that always came with the approach of darkness.
By HAADIabout a month ago in History
The Moon-Dusted Path
The bell tolled, a dull clang against the thick, humid air, and Elara’s shoulders slumped, not in surrender, but in a weary acknowledgement of another day’s end. Her fingers, calloused and stained with the day’s cotton, curled into her palm. The sun, a brutal orange eye, was finally dipping below the tree line, painting the sky in colors too beautiful for the ugly work it oversaw. Sweat trickled down her spine, a familiar companion, but tonight, a different kind of itch stirred beneath her skin, a restless thrumming that always came with the approach of darkness.
By HAADIabout a month ago in History