HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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Broken Light on Wet Streets
Elias hadn't meant to be out this late. The rain, a cold, persistent sheet, had caught him three blocks from the bar, the one he’d just stormed out of. The argument, a low, simmering thing with Clara, had finally boiled over, spilling out in harsh whispers and a slammed door. Now, the city's neon signs, usually a garish blur, became something else, something sharper, something almost malevolent in the puddles.
By HAADI13 days ago in Psyche
The Unseen Steps
Maya gripped the worn wooden barre, her knuckles white. Sweat slicked her palms, not from exertion, but a kind of internal friction. Ms. Elena, her new contemporary dance teacher, clapped her hands, a sharp sound that cut through the studio’s hushed tension. "Alright, people. Let go. Forget the counts. Forget the positions. I want to see you *feel* the music. Move with what you don't see, what you only sense. Embrace the shadows, let them guide you." Maya chewed on the inside of her cheek. *Shadows?* She'd spent twelve years in ballet, every plié, every arabesque, every jeté precisely measured, counted, and mirrored. This new class felt like being asked to paint a masterpiece with a blindfold on.
By HAADI13 days ago in Education
The Unstamped Burden
The kitchen light hummed, a low, buzzing thing that did little to cut the gloom. Arthur sat at the scarred oak table, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of a tumbler. Ice clinked against the glass, the sound sharp in the midnight quiet. A half-empty bottle of Old Crow, its label peeling, stood sentinel beside a stack of old mail. He’d been staring at the same letter for an hour, maybe two, the yellowed envelope feeling heavier than a brick in his hand. The address, scrawled years ago in his own hurried script, was still legible: Michael J. Brennan, General Delivery, Phoenix, Arizona. A ghost address, really. He hadn't known where Mikey was, not really, not since the day the younger man walked out and didn't bother to look back.
By HAADI13 days ago in Men
Last Stop: Nowhere
Elias hadn't bought a ticket, not really. He'd just shuffled onto the last car of the rattletrap train, a ghost slipping through the turnstiles, a man already halfway to gone. No one stopped him. No one even looked. That suited him fine. The seat cushion smelled of something old and damp, like a forgotten dream. The window was streaked with grime, blurring the already grey world outside.
By HAADI13 days ago in Motivation
The Puddle Gaze
The rain was a cold, insistent slap against Finn’s face the moment he pushed through the swinging doors of the diner. Ten hours of frying grease and fake smiles, and this was his reward. The city was a slick, dark beast, its asphalt skin glistening under the jagged scars of neon light. Blues, reds, sickening greens. Everything blurred, everything bled into everything else, especially in the puddles.
By HAADI14 days ago in Horror
A Blanket of Ash and Forgetfulness
Private Thomas Miller pulled his greatcoat tighter, the wool coarse and stiff with frozen mud against his neck. It was past midnight, somewhere in the blasted fields near Ypres, late December 1917. The air was a razor blade on his exposed skin, digging under his fingernails even through the worn cloth gloves. Below him, the trench was a frozen rut, smelling of stale fear, putrid rations, and the ever-present, cloying scent of blood that even the biting cold couldn't quite scour away. He stood on the fire step, peering over the sandbags into No Man's Land, a jagged scar of wire and shattered earth. A few hours ago, the wind had been howling, a banshee cry that carried the distant thud of artillery, the crack of a sniper’s rifle. Now, nothing.
By HAADI14 days ago in History
Shards of a Sunk Heart
Elias tasted the salt on his tongue before his eyes even opened, a permanent fixture in the air of their small, leaning shack on the cliffs. The pre-dawn chill seeped through the cracks in the walls, raising gooseflesh on his arms. Beside him, Lena, twelve years old and too thin, breathed a shallow, rhythmic gasp that always settled his gut, for a moment anyway. He shifted, joints popping like old timber, and the lumpy mattress groaned. Another day. Another dive into the deep, into the silence, into the shimmering ghost of what was once. The Sunken Glass City.
By HAADI14 days ago in Families
The Weight of Unsaid Things
Arthur’s kitchen counter was a graveyard of crumpled paper. Empty coffee mugs, a half-eaten sandwich from lunch, and the amber glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the window were his companions. It was three in the morning again. He held the pen, a cheap ballpoint, its plastic worn smooth from endless nights like these, and stared at the blank page. The fresh sheet mocked him, always did. He’d scribbled the first line a dozen times: 'Clara, I need to tell you…' and then his hand would cramp, his mind would seize, and the whole thing would get wadded up and flung into the overflowing bin by the sink.
By HAADI14 days ago in Confessions
St. Kilda in His Bones
Elias Thorne wasn't much for 'living.' He existed. Six days a week, he cataloged the forgotten lives of others in the city archives, his fingers stained with the dust of centuries. His flat, a single room overlooking a grimy alley, held only what was necessary: a cot, a chipped mug, a stack of worn books. He didn't crave adventure, not truly. He just wanted a quiet corner. And then, the St. Kilda Box arrived.
By HAADI14 days ago in Chapters
The Dead End Express
Arthur stood on the platform, the concrete cold soaking through his thin soles. November mist, thick and clammy, clung to the few flickering gas lamps, making the deserted station feel less like a gateway and more like the end of the line. His duffel bag, a bruised canvas thing that had seen better days, rested heavy at his feet. Inside, a change of clothes, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, and a faded photograph of a woman he hadn’t spoken to in years. The air smelled of damp earth and stale coal smoke, the kind that promised nothing good.
By HAADI14 days ago in Lifehack
The Salt in Her Eyes
Sarah spent too much time in the small, sun-bleached corner of their living room, an old armchair swallowing her whole. Not watching TV. Not reading. Just staring at the photographs she’d pinned haphazardly to the corkboard next to the window. Mostly faded prints, postcards picked up from antique shops, blurry internet printouts. All of them of the same place: a sliver of the Breton coast in France, a tiny fishing village called Port-Guen. Rough-hewn stone houses, their roofs heavy with moss, huddled against a grey, spitting sea. Boats, small and sturdy, bobbing in a little harbor, nets drying on the quay.
By HAADI14 days ago in Marriage
Shard Reef
The air in the cabin tasted like diesel and stale sweat, thick and unforgiving. Jax leaned against the bulkhead, the vibrating thrum of the engine a constant companion against his spine. Outside, the ocean stretched an unbroken slate grey, swallowing the last weak light of dawn. Silas, the man who owned the boat and, by extension, them for the next twenty-four hours, stood by the radar screen, a map of numbers and lines projected onto it, his silhouette sharp against the dim glow. He didn't speak much, just pointed, grunted, made sure his orders were understood, then watched. Always watched.
By HAADI14 days ago in Criminal