General

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 HAADIabout a month ago in Men
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 HAADIabout a month ago in Men
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 HAADIabout a month ago in Men
The Last Car to Nowhere
The platform was concrete dust and shadows, the kind that cling to forgotten places. A single bulb, caged and grimy, buzzed overhead, doing little to chase the heavy dusk. The sign above the track, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, read: ‘Track 9 – Final Boarding.’ No destination listed. Just that. Final. A few men huddled, shoulders hunched against the biting wind that whipped through the station’s skeletal frame. They didn’t talk much, just eyed the track, eyed the horizon that promised nothing but more of this bleakness.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
Moonlit Grapple
The porch wood groaned its nightly protest as Elias pushed off, boots scuffing the worn planks. The air bit hard, sharp with the smell of damp earth and dying leaves. Above, a full moon hung, bloated and white, bleeding light across the overgrown patch he called a backyard. Shadows stretched long and thin, like skeletal fingers reaching for him. He walked to the center, where the old swing set, rusted and silent, used to stand. Now, it was just a patch of flattened, dead grass, a bald spot in the wild. He always started there.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
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 Rusting Iron Road
The wind clawed at the gaps in the old station roof, whistling a low, mournful tune through the splintered timbers. Silas pulled his collar tighter, the threadbare wool doing little against the bone-deep cold. His breath plumed white, hanging in the frigid air like ghosts of spoken words. Around him, a dozen other figures huddled, mostly men, their faces etched with the same kind of weariness that had settled in Silas's own bones. Each one a shadow, a story he didn't want to hear, didn't need to.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
Ben Sasse’s Announcement and the Reason Behind the Trend
Former U.S. Senator Ben Sasse has become a trending topic across Google searches, social media platforms, and major news outlets today. Many people who had not heard his name in recent months are now asking the same question: Why is Ben Sasse trending right now? The answer is not related to a political scandal or controversy, but rather a deeply personal and emotional announcement that has captured national attention.
By Daily Motivationabout a month ago in Men
Pastures of Static
Kael dragged the heavy refuse bin across the slick, oil-stained concrete, the grind of his treads echoing in the cavernous waste processing plant. Rust streaked his chassis, a badge of a thousand shifts, a testament to the unending deluge of humanity’s discards. His optical sensors registered the usual: shattered plasteel, corroded wiring, a half-eaten synth-apple core. Data. Just data, for processing. But lately, something else had been bleeding in.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
The Legendary Coat That Refused to Retire
I own a coat, not merely cloth, But something closer to a myth. It’s not just worn—it has been through things, Survived the cold, endured my thrift.
By Farhadabout a month ago in Men
The Weight of Unsaid Words
Arthur found it tucked beneath a stack of old blueprints, the paper yellowed, brittle at the edges. Not a treasure, not a forgotten deed, just a letter. His own scratchy handwriting, barely legible now, dated May 12th, 1978. Thirty-seven years ago. He hadn't meant to find it, just clearing out the desk in the den, a task his wife, Mary, had been hounding him about for weeks. He picked it up, careful not to crack the creases. The paper felt like a ghost in his hand, thin and impossibly fragile.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
The Ledger of Dust
Elias pushed through the heavy oak doors, the groan of ancient hinges a familiar complaint. The air inside hit him, thick, dry, smelling of paper and something else, something like old memories and forgotten rain. Dust motes, tiny universes, swam in the weak light filtering through grimy arched windows high above. This place, the Grand Archives, it always felt like a tomb. Not a dead one, but one where every single whisper lingered, a faint hum against the silence. His worn boots scraped on the polished stone floor, each step too loud, too heavy.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men