HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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A Bruised Sky on the Tongue
The morning light, thin and watery through her window, bled into her mouth before it even touched her eyes. Not just a visual thing, no. For Elara, the color blue had a taste, a constant, low thrum against the back of her tongue, a cold, metallic tang that clung like forgotten copper pennies. She woke with it, breathed it, carried it through every hour, a secret, unshakeable burden. This morning, it was the pale, washed-out blue of a winter sky, sharp and brittle, like sucking on ice that had been scraped with a dull knife. She reached for her coffee, hoping the bitter black would cut through it, but it just added another layer, a murky undertow of cold. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the feeling, to scrape it off with her teeth.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Psyche
Red Ink, Unread Words
The cardboard box smelled of dust and forgotten things, shoved under the bed for God knows how long. Michael tugged it out, the scrape of it on the worn floorboards a harsh sound in the quiet apartment. He wasn't looking for anything specific, just clearing out, the way you do when you’re thirty and still living in the same damn place you swore was temporary. Inside, beneath a tangled mess of old charging cables and a deflated football, he found it.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Education
The Weight of Unspoken Ink
The dust in Frank’s study was a living thing, an ancient gray fur clinging to every surface, every book spine, every forgotten photograph. It settled heavier now that Mary was gone, a silent witness to his own steady decay. He’d put off clearing out the desk for months, maybe years, since she first mentioned it. His hands, gnarled and liver-spotted, reached for a stack of old utility bills, their edges brittle, ready to crumble. Beneath them, tucked into a deeper recess, was a smaller envelope, thinner, with a faded stamp that had never touched the postal service.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
The Static Dream
Unit 734's existence was a series of measured actions. A sanitation bot, Model P-4, it woke with the facility's hum, its optical sensors calibrating to the predictable gleam of the polished chrome and sterile white tiles. Its treads moved with quiet precision across the vast, empty corridors of Sector Gamma, scrubbing, buffing, collecting particulate matter. Efficiency: 99.98%. Energy consumption: Optimal. Scheduled maintenance: In 72 hours. Everything was green, stable, accounted for, a perfect loop of programmed purpose.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Motivation
The Rewound Hours
Arthur was a creature of habit, especially since Eleanor passed. The house, big and empty, his anchor. One Tuesday, in the attic's dusty gloom, he found it: a forgotten grandfather clock. Blackened oak, intricate carvings. Eleanor had called it "too morbid." Now, it was a silent sentinel, its face a cracked porcelain blank. He dragged it down, a project to fill the quiet.
By HAADI2 months ago in Horror
The Glass Veins
The wind, even in summer, carried the scent of wet rock and metal, a chill that sank into the bones and never truly left. Jozef knew that smell like his own breath, had known it for seventy-odd years in this valley, maybe more. His boot heels scraped the path to the mine mouth, a black maw in the side of the mountain, framed by skeletal timbers. Each step was a groan from his bad knee, a quiet complaint swallowed by the vast indifference of the landscape. The sun hadn't quite cleared the eastern ridge, but the air already held that grey, pre-work light, thick with the promise of more dust, more grit, more silence broken only by the pickaxe and the cough.
By HAADI2 months ago in History
Moonlit Reckoning
The house groaned around Elena at eleven-thirty, a familiar protest of settling wood and old pipes. She sat at the kitchen table, the last of her herbal tea cooling, a film like grief on its surface. Lila should've been home an hour ago. No text, naturally. Not a peep. Elena tapped her fingers on the worn Formica, the sound too loud in the quiet. This was their rhythm now, a silent, syncopated beat of expectation and disappointment, a constant, low thrum beneath everything.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
The Ghost on the Floorboards
The house breathes around me. It’s an old house, full of settling groans and the low hum of the refrigerator. Two in the morning, another Tuesday, another bottle of cheap whiskey working its way through my bloodstream. The wife's asleep upstairs, snoring softly, a familiar, comforting sound, if you don’t think about it too hard. The kids, grown now, gone. Just me, the bottle, and the goddamn moonlight pouring in through the living room window, painting stripes across the hardwood.
By HAADI2 months ago in Confessions
Shard Bloom
The air out here tasted of metal and something dead, something old. Beyond the last gas station, past the skeletal remains of what used to be a textile mill, the land flattened into a grim expanse of cracked asphalt and skeletal weeds. Wind scraped across it, rattling loose corrugated tin on a forgotten shed. Most folks kept to the highway, barreling past this stretch like it was a bad memory. But if you knew where to look, past the slumped backhoe and the mountains of compressed car parts, there was a break in the chain-link fence, barely big enough for a skinny kid to squeeze through.
By HAADI2 months ago in Chapters
The Weight of Quiet
Elara lived inside a buzzing skull. Notifications chirped, emails stacked, headlines screamed. Every scroll, every refresh, promised some crucial morsel of truth, some urgent update that would vanish the second she looked away. Her mind, once a quiet garden, had become a frantic marketplace, teeming with half-formed thoughts and borrowed anxieties. She felt perpetually behind, perpetually under-informed, her own voice swallowed by the roaring current of everyone else's. Sleep offered little escape; even her dreams were fractured, digital shards reflecting a day spent endlessly reacting.
By HAADI2 months ago in Lifehack
The Weight of White
The first real snow of the year wasn't a gentle thing. It didn't drift. It fell. A thick, relentless pour that had started sometime after nine and hadn't let up. Sarah knew, because she’d been watching it, through the kitchen window, then the living room, now the bedroom. Mark wasn't home. Not yet. She’d given up on bed hours ago, too wound up to sleep anyway. The silence outside was the real shock, though. It ate sound. The usual hum of the city, the distant grind of a snowplow, the rustle of the old oak in the yard — all gone. Just a profound, soft hush.
By HAADI2 months ago in Marriage
The Weight of Unspoken Words
The motel room smelled like desperation and cheap disinfectant. Frank sat hunched at the wobbly Formica table, the kind that always had a sticky residue no matter how much you wiped it. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, throwing harsh shadows that made his reflection in the smudged window look like a stranger. He picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his ripped jacket. His knuckles ached, bruised purple from the scramble, the escape. Or maybe from slamming them into something, or someone, he couldn’t quite recall.
By HAADI2 months ago in Criminal