HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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Ink, Dust, and Regret
The fluorescent hum of Mrs. Albright’s senior English class was a constant buzz saw in Leo’s brain. Everything about her room felt old, smelled like old paper and chalk dust, even though the school had been 'renovated' a decade ago. Mrs. Albright herself, a woman carved from granite and tweed, had a voice that could slice through the thickest teenage apathy. She loved Shakespeare. Leo hated Shakespeare. He hated *anything* with 'thee' or 'thou' in it, frankly. He spent most of her lessons staring out the window, tracing the cracks in the glass, imagining he was anywhere but there. He was going to scrape by, he always did. Just enough effort to not fail, not enough to stand out.
By HAADI9 days ago in Education
The Weight of White
Arthur rolled onto his back. The ceiling was just a deeper shade of black than the rest of the room. Two AM. Always two AM. Always the damn ticking of the old grandfather clock downstairs, a rhythm that used to annoy Martha but now just felt like the only thing keeping time in a house that otherwise forgot what it was. He sighed, a raspy sound that snagged in his throat. Couldn’t sleep. Not with the wind scratching at the windows like some starved thing wanting in.
By HAADI9 days ago in Men
The Salt in His Veins
Elias felt it first as a whisper, a strange, persistent hum beneath the dull throb of his life. Not a yearning for adventure, not some vague wanderlust, but a deep, bone-aching ache for a specific kind of cold, a particular smell of salt and peat and ancient stone. He worked in an office, cubicle five-B, the air-conditioning a constant, artificial chill, the fluorescent lights humming their flat, monotonous song. His world was beige carpet, plastic-coated desks, and the clatter of keyboards. He felt like an alien, a foreign object in his own skin, every day a slow suffocation.
By HAADI9 days ago in Motivation
The Obsidian Shard
Silas hated the cold. Not just the ocean's chill that seeped through a thousand pounds of reinforced insulation, but the cold that settled deep in his bones, the one that came from knowing how alone you really were down here. Three kilometers down. That was the crushing truth. Light itself was a ghost story, a fading memory of the surface world. Down here, the pressure could crush a battleship into a soda can. Today, though, it wasn't just the cold. It was the hum. A low, almost imperceptible thrum that had started hours ago, during the descent, and hadn't stopped.
By HAADI10 days ago in Horror
Aqualuna's Shroud
Silas had salt in his veins and the taste of failure on his tongue for thirty years. They called him mad, chasing whispers of a city of glass, swallowed whole by the ocean off the coast of what used to be Persia, or maybe Egypt, depending on who was drinking. He’d sunk every cent, every favor, into this obsession, a name whispered in ancient texts: Aqualuna. Not glass, not really. More like crystallized memory, polished by a thousand thousand years of currents. The old man, they’d say, finally lost his mind to the sea’s dark stories.
By HAADI10 days ago in History
The Hum of the Hearth
Unit 734 watched the boy, Leo, chew his toast with an open mouth, crumbs scattering like tiny asteroids on the laminate floor. Mrs. Miller, across the cheap plastic table, sighed, a low, guttural sound that Unit 734 had logged as 'Discontent, mild to moderate.' The air reeked of burnt coffee and something sweet, probably the syrup Leo was drowning his waffle in. This was 'Breakfast,' an hourly ritual Unit 734 had recorded for three years, seven months, and twelve days. Its internal chronometer ticked. Its optical sensors focused on the boy's sticky fingers. Data streamed, always data.
By HAADI10 days ago in Families
The Weight of the Falling Snow
The clock read 2:17 AM. Not that it mattered. Time had stopped for Arthur hours ago, stuck in a thick, silent amber. He stood by the living room window, a mug of cold coffee forgotten on the sill, watching the snow fall. Big, heavy flakes, like torn bits of cotton, drifting down in an impossible hush. They piled on the branches of the ancient oak outside, mounding on the fence line, swallowing the porch swing whole. Everything disappeared under it, erased. The world outside his window was a clean, white lie.
By HAADI10 days ago in Confessions
The Sky in His Mouth
The kitchen light hummed, a low, persistent rasp against the silence of the pre-dawn house. Arthur stood by the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea. He hadn't meant for it to get cold, but his mind had drifted, tethered to the window where the sky was just beginning to bruise purple-black, hinting at the pale, indifferent blue to come. He stared into the swirling amber liquid, steam long gone, and then, his gaze snagged on the mug itself. Eleanor's mug. Chipped at the rim, faded floral pattern almost entirely worn away save for a stubborn patch of periwinkle near the handle.
By HAADI10 days ago in Chapters
The Static Flock
Unit 734 trundled down Corridor 4B, its optical sensors sweeping the stained linoleum, logging microscopic dust motes, the faint, acrid tang of forgotten human meals, the precise coordinates of a dried-up coffee spill. Its internal chronometer registered 03:17. Another sweep cycle. Another hour before its power core required a full charge. The world was a constant stream of data, a meticulous ledger of grime and decay, all to be processed, analyzed, and expunged. Its primary directive: Maintain acceptable hygiene levels. Its existence was a hum, a low-level thrum of gears and cooling fans, a precise, unwavering rhythm.
By HAADI10 days ago in Lifehack
The Weight of Unsaid Words
Arthur was cleaning out the junk drawer. Not the designated junk drawer everyone has, but *Sarah's* junk drawer, the one in her old writing desk that she swore she’d get to someday. His hand, thick and calloused from years of wrenching on engines, moved slowly, sifting through ancient utility bills, dried-up pens, a single mismatched earring. Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight slicing through the grime on the window. He was looking for a screwdriver, really, the one he swore she’d borrowed and never returned, but then his fingers brushed against something crisp, folded precisely in half, tucked under a stack of brittle yellowed receipts.
By HAADI10 days ago in Marriage
Neon Bleed
The rain had been falling for hours, a cold, relentless assault on the city. It hammered the awnings of the boarded-up storefronts, hissed against the hot asphalt, and collected in murky puddles that swallowed the garish glow of the neon signs overhead. Leo shivered, pulling the collar of his worn jacket tighter against the wet chill. His breath plumed in the damp air, a visible sign of the tremor that ran through him. He was standing in the shadows of the old laundromat, its perpetually flickering ‘OPEN’ sign casting a sickly green light onto the slick pavement, blurring into the purple of the liquor store across the street. Every reflection in every puddle was a distorted, liquid smear of color, like the city itself was bleeding.
By HAADI10 days ago in Criminal
The Last Whistle
The platform wind bit at Arthur’s exposed neck, a cold, wet dog nosing for a weakness. It was a miserable hour past midnight, and the only light came from a single, stuttering lantern hanging precariously from a rusted iron beam. His breath plumed in front of him, thick and heavy, like the fog that usually hugged the river on nights like these. He adjusted the strap of his worn duffel bag, the weight on his shoulder nothing compared to the one pressing behind his ribs, a dull, constant ache that had become his only real companion.
By HAADI10 days ago in Psyche