HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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The Scholar's Hand
The air in the Grand Archives hung thick, heavy with the scent of ancient paper, dust, and the quiet despair of a thousand struggling minds. For Elias, it was mostly despair. His fingers, stained with ink and perpetually cold, traced lines in a particularly dense passage of Aristotle, the words blurring, refusing to yield meaning. The gas lamp on his oak table flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the towering shelves feel like an oppressive, silent judgment. His final examination loomed, a monstrous, impossible hurdle, and this particular treatise on ethics felt like a personal vendetta against his understanding.
By HAADI11 days ago in Education
Bleeding Lights on Wet Pavement
Leo watched the rain fall, splattering against the grimy window of The Hideaway. Each drop smeared the neon 'OPEN' sign across the street, turning the crisp red into a pulsing, liquid bruise. The air inside the bar was thick with stale beer and unspoken histories, a smell Leo knew better than his own aftershave. He took a drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing hot, then faded. Another Tuesday night. Another storm rolling through the city, washing the grit into the gutters, leaving the asphalt shiny and black.
By HAADI11 days ago in Men
The Salt-Kissed Call
Leo worked the line, same as his old man, same as his old man's old man. The smell of hot metal and industrial cleaner was the scent of his life, stuck in his throat like a swallowed lie. Six days a week, the thrum of the machines vibrated up through his worn boots, rattling his teeth, shaking loose something deep inside him. It wasn't just boredom. It was an ache, sharp and persistent, for somewhere else. A specific somewhere, even though he couldn't name it, hadn't a clue where it might be. He just knew it. Knew it like a scar on his own hand.
By HAADI11 days ago in Motivation
Moon-Struck Figures
Arthur couldn't sleep. Again. Three weeks, four days since the accident, and the nights were all the same: too long, too quiet, too full of things that weren't there but felt like they were. The old cabin, deep in the Blackwood Pines, was supposed to be a refuge. A place to get his head straight, away from the knowing glances and hushed tones. Instead, it was a soundproof box for his own unraveling.
By HAADI13 days ago in Horror
The Weight of Unwritten Words
The damp seeped into Thomas’s bones, a relentless chill that made his teeth ache. He was hunched, back pressed against the corrugated iron sheeting of the trench wall, a meager protection against the biting wind that carried the constant, low growl of the distant guns. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, promising more rain, more mud. Always more mud. He pulled a worn stub of a pencil from his breast pocket, fumbling it with fingers stiff from the cold, and laid a crumpled piece of thin paper on his knee. It was Sarah’s last letter, her neat, looping script asking if he was well, if he was warm, if he’d seen any interesting sights.
By HAADI13 days ago in History
Moonlit Shuffles
The house felt like a hollowed-out skull. Too big, too quiet, every creak of the floorboards a question Lena didn’t have an answer for. Her father had been gone six weeks. Six weeks, and the air still smelled faintly of his pipe tobacco and the old spice cologne he’d worn since before she was born. Her mother, Clara, moved through the rooms like a ghost, tidying things already neat, dusting surfaces that shone. Lena watched her, a knot of frustration tightening in her gut. She’d driven three hours to be here, to help, to *be* with her mother, but Clara just kept… busy.
By HAADI13 days ago in Families
The Weight of Glass
It started, as these things always do, with a glint. Just a flicker on the sonar, a signature that didn't make sense, too geometric for a natural formation, too sharp for a wreck. Two hundred fathoms down, off a forgotten trench in the Pacific Rim. My old man, God rest his soul, he always said the ocean gives you nothing for free. He was right. It gives you things, alright, but you pay for them, a slow, agonizing interest on your soul.
By HAADI13 days ago in Confessions
Salt on the Wind
Elias stared at the boxes. Piled high in the corner of his cramped apartment, dusty monuments to a life he barely knew. His grandmother’s things. They’d sat there for three years since the funeral, an unspoken obligation, a weight. He worked his dead-end job, ate instant noodles, scrolled through endless feeds, and the boxes just… watched him. Lately, the watching felt more like a demand. A quiet pressure, something needing release. So, on a Tuesday, when the city outside felt particularly loud and meaningless, he decided to face them.
By HAADI13 days ago in Chapters
The Gardener of Glass
Elias felt the cold seep into his bones, a constant companion these days. It wasn't just the November wind biting at his ears as he waited for the bus; it was a deeper chill, lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Another day, same as the last. Same bus route, same disinfectant smell at the community center, same tired faces, including his own reflection in the bus window. He worked the night shift, cleaning, mopping, polishing until the surfaces gleamed, erasing the day's grime for others, only to come home to a small apartment, a quiet ache in his mother’s room, and the silent ticking of a clock that seemed to mock his slow progress.
By HAADI13 days ago in Lifehack
The Weight of Unspoken Words
The streetlamp outside cast a sickly yellow rectangle across the worn carpet of the study. John sat hunched over the old oak desk, the one Sarah’s grandfather had built, his back protesting the late hour. A single, naked bulb hung above him, buzzing faintly, a cheap, harsh light for such a momentous task. In front of him, three crumpled sheets of paper, balled up like frustrated fists, lay beside a fourth, smoother page, half-filled with his looping, untidy script. His pen, a Bic, felt like a lead weight in his hand. He hadn’t written a proper letter in twenty years, not since his grandma died.
By HAADI13 days ago in Marriage
The Moon's Cold Embrace
Arthur’s kitchen smelled of stale coffee and old wood. Every night, the same. He’d sit at the table, just him, the dim yellow glow of the pendant light pulling shadows long across the checkered linoleum. He’d trace the rim of his empty mug, the ceramic cool against his thumb. The quiet hum of the refrigerator, the distant whine of a dog somewhere down the street, these were his companions. And the empty chair across from him, that was always there too, holding the ghost of Eleanor, a faint imprint of her presence in the air, a scent he still sometimes imagined: lily of the valley, her favourite.
By HAADI13 days ago in Psyche
The Azure Bite
Vinny knew the taste of blue. It started subtle, a thin, almost electrical tang on his tongue right after Marco said, 'We're good, man, just go.' And Vinny, dumb bastard that he was, went. Now it was a constant thing, a low thrumming under his teeth, a metallic bite like licking a frozen flagpole in January, but with a cold, impossibly deep hue that soaked into his gums. It wasn't the taste of blood, though he'd known that too, plenty of times. This was something else. This was the color of bad news.
By HAADI13 days ago in Criminal