Alain SUPPINI
Bio
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.
Stories (312)
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The Drawer with the Key
The key was in the kitchen drawer, the one that always stuck. I had to tug the handle twice, then slide a butter knife along the side to unjam whatever invisible thing had folded itself into the track. A paperclip, a dried pea, a decade. The key lay in the back, where it had lain the last time I lived in this house, on a ring with two others that fit locks nobody used anymore.
By Alain SUPPINI4 months ago in Fiction
We’ll Talk Later
The answering machine still sits on the sideboard like a small black box with nothing left to say. The landline was cut years ago, but sometimes I still press PLAY and listen to the emptiness pour out, with that faint electric hiss of things that have ceased to exist without ever learning how to stay quiet. It’s there, in that hiss, that the conversation we never had begins.
By Alain SUPPINI4 months ago in Fiction
The Roads Between
If I were to unfold a map of myself, it would not resemble the geographies of the earth. No rivers, no capitals, no mountain ranges marked by surveyors. Instead it would hold a series of shifting territories, each one belonging to a different version of me — territories sometimes linked by fragile bridges, sometimes separated by impassable ravines.
By Alain SUPPINI4 months ago in Humans
One glimpse that unravels everything
I should never have looked. But the keyhole was there — a perfect circle of darkness punched through old brass — and behind it: light, movement, the hush of whispers that did not belong to me. I put my eye to it, because curiosity is just hunger with better manners, and because the house had been kind to me so far: no creaks that weren’t friendly, no shadows that didn’t behave.
By Alain SUPPINI4 months ago in Fiction
