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 Bureau of Unwritten Letters
They say every word we never send goes somewhere. The Bureau hides in plain sight, in a faceless grey building with no plaque, no bell, no sign. By day it looks like every other ministry: brick, stone, iron, humming with fluorescent light. But if you step too close, you feel the air tremble with a thousand unshed sighs. And if you dare to push open the door, you’ll hear it: the faint rustle of paper, like leaves whispering in a forest with no wind.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Fiction
The House That Ate Its Inhabitants
They said the house was beautiful. High-arched windows that caught the sun, oak staircases polished smooth by careful hands, fireplaces carved with vines and angels. It stood tall at the edge of the village, proud and expectant, as if it had been built not just to shelter, but to witness. A place to cradle laughter, warmth, the lives of those who entered.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Fiction
Minutes for Sale
They say the first thing you lose is perspective. The Market opens at midnight, in the basements of cities where clocks no longer tick but pulse, endlessly, in red neon. A place where no one trades gold or paper or digital credits. Here, the only currency is time itself—minutes lived, hours endured, days survived.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Poets
The Last Candlemaker
The world had long forgotten darkness. Every street was drowned in electric light, every home humming with bulbs and screens. Night itself had been banished—turned into a pale imitation of day. Shadows were considered archaic, fire a dangerous relic, and candles nothing but nostalgia displayed behind museum glass.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Poets
The Library of Things Left Unsaid
They say every word you swallow builds a shelf inside you. At first it is small—just a ledge where a single sentence rests, unsent, unopened. But silence has gravity, and soon more phrases arrive: hurriedly hidden confessions, letters never sent, truths choked back before they could bloom.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Poets
