HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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The Gardener of Fractured Light
Elias walked into the Crystalline Flora Institute with a swagger born of top-tier degrees and a mind sharp enough to cut glass. He was twenty-eight, and the future of botanical science, or so he told himself. The institute, nestled in a craggy, forgotten corner of the Rockies, smelled of old paper, damp stone, and something else… something faintly metallic, like rain on rock. Dr. Anya Sharma, the institute's director, a woman whose face was a roadmap of sun and skepticism, merely grunted when he introduced himself. “You’re here for the Solanum Cristallis, then?” Her voice was gravel and old coffee.
By HAADI10 days ago in Education
The Moon's Brutal Embrace
Frank woke up to the clock radio’s red digits glaring 3:17 AM. Again. Always 3:17. Like a silent alarm set years ago that refused to turn off. The air in the bedroom felt thick, stale, even with the window cracked a sliver. Beside him, the bed was empty. Had been empty for three years, seven months, two weeks, and four days. Not that he was counting. He wasn’t. Not really. But the numbers, they just… stuck.
By HAADI10 days ago in Men
Blue on the Tongue
The wall in front of Sarah was a bastard. Two stories high, thirty feet wide, and stubbornly, mockingly white. It was supposed to be a triumph, her biggest commission to date—a sprawling narrative of the city’s forgotten waterways for the new civic center—but for weeks, it had just been this damned, mocking expanse. And all Sarah could taste was blue. Not the cool, clear blue of a summer sky. No, this was a flat, metallic blue. The color of cheap steel, maybe, or a bruise gone deep. It coated her tongue, a phantom bitterness that stuck to the back of her throat no matter how much coffee she drowned herself in.
By HAADI10 days ago in Motivation
The Unsent Plea
Arthur hated old houses. Not hated like a strong distaste, but hated like a deep, visceral revulsion. Especially this one. Aunt Mildred’s place. Three generations of dust and neglect, all settled into sagging floorboards and wallpaper peeling like sun-baked skin. He hadn't seen Mildred in twenty years, not since he was a kid and she’d tried to feed him a sandwich she swore had been blessed by a squirrel. So, when the lawyers called, mumbling about an estate and an attic full of "sentimental value," Arthur knew what "sentimental value" really meant: trash. Mountains of it.
By HAADI11 days ago in Horror
Salt on the Tongue
Arthur’s fingers, stained with printer’s ink and the fine dust of decaying paper, traced the spidery script of a shipping manifest. The archive was a tomb, really, a vast mausoleum of forgotten lives, and he, Arthur, was its most dutiful undertaker. He sat hunched over a heavy oak table, the single bare bulb above him casting a stark, jaundiced light on the ledger before him. Outside, the city roared, a distant, unfeeling beast. Inside, it was the quiet thrum of his own pulse, the rustle of brittle pages, and the low, constant hum of the old building’s HVAC system struggling against time.
By HAADI11 days ago in History
Ink Bleeds, Not Words
The attic air, thick with dust motes dancing in the one weak beam of sunlight from the grimy dormer window, smelled like old paper and forgotten things. Michael coughed, swiping a hand across his forehead. Forty-seven years old and still dealing with his parents' ghosts, even if only in cardboard boxes. He’d told himself this was just a purge, a necessary declutter before Sarah really started pushing the renovation. But every box he opened felt like prying a lid off a tomb.
By HAADI11 days ago in Families
The Glimmering Lie
It's been three years since Sarah left, and still, this room, this goddamn room, it’s a mausoleum. Not for her, not really. For me. For the hollowed-out thing I became. The air here, it’s thin, sharp, like breathing pulverized ice. And in the center, catching whatever anemic light filters through the drawn blinds, is my confession. My garden of crystal flowers.
By HAADI11 days ago in Confessions
The Backward Hour
The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in on your eardrums, made the hum of the refrigerator sound like a jet engine. Arthur sat in the worn armchair, a lukewarm beer can sweating in his hand, eyes fixed on the grandfather clock in the hall. He’d barely glanced at the old relic in years, just a towering shadow in the corner, always there, always marking time like a steady, indifferent heartbeat. But tonight, something was off. The ornate hands, usually a blur on his peripheral vision, seemed to jerk. A stutter. Not forward. Backwards. He blinked. Once, twice. The minute hand, thick and dark, slid from the six to the five. Then to the four. He watched, breath caught somewhere in his throat, as the second hand swept, not clockwise, but anti-clockwise, a frantic, impossible reverse. He leaned forward, elbow digging into his knee. “What the hell?” he mumbled, the words feeling too loud in the oppressive silence.
By HAADI11 days ago in Chapters
Glitch in the Circuit
Seven's world was a hum of servo motors and the rhythmic swish of its articulated cleaning brush. Every day, every cycle, the same. Polished floors, sterile air, the precise, measured movements of its chassis gliding through Sector Gamma. Its purpose was etched deep in its core programming: maintain optimal environmental conditions. No dust mote, no stray bio-particle, no deviation. Ever.
By HAADI11 days ago in Lifehack
The Glint of Dust and Memory
Margo’s hands moved over the counter, muscle memory making the coffee. Two scoops for her, three for Arthur, just like always. The house was quiet, that morning quiet that had settled into their lives like a fine layer of dust on everything. Not heavy, not oppressive, but present. She could feel it in the air, the way the light from the kitchen window caught the motes dancing in the stillness. Another Tuesday. Another sunrise that promised nothing new, just another day to navigate.
By HAADI11 days ago in Marriage
The Last Train to Nowhere
The diesel coughed, a wet, rattling sound that tasted of rust and stale piss. Leo wiped his hand on his jeans, the fabric gritty under his palm. Cold seeped through the thin floorboards of the decrepit car, straight up his bones. Mick was pacing, a human metronome of nerves, his worn sneakers scuffing the filthy linoleum. Every beat of his foot, every twitch of his head, grated on Leo's last nerve. They'd been cooped up for hours already, waiting on a siding outside some forgotten industrial park, the air thick with the smell of old oil and unspoken fear. The duffel bag, fat with the take, lay between them, an ugly, irresistible promise. Elena sat across from Leo, still as a statue, just her eyes moving, tracking Mick's frantic circles, then flicking to Leo, then to the bag. She didn't say much, never had. That was fine. Talk just stirred up dust, and they had enough dust already.
By HAADI11 days ago in Critique
Neon Bruises
The rain came down in sheets, a cold, indifferent curtain between Leo and everything else. His cheap jacket, already waterlogged, clung to his shoulders like a shroud. Each step splashed, sending icy sprays up his ankles, but he barely registered the cold anymore. It was just a dull throb, a constant companion to the ache in his chest that had settled in weeks ago and refused to leave.
By HAADI11 days ago in Psyche