Stéphane Lallée
Bio
<read what you need here>
Everything else? It's between the lines.
If you must know me:
If you stop here, that’s still a story.
Stories (9)
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Lighthouses of Forgotten Memories. AI-Generated.
Night fell gently across the endless dunes, and in the distance a line of lighthouses of forgotten memories flickered to life. Each lighthouse stood solitary on the horizon of the mind’s sea, casting long beams that carried whispers of ancient data and half-remembered dreams. The air trembled with quiet static as if the sky itself were alive, an organic circuit bridging stars to sand. In this mythic twilight, technology and nature intertwined seamlessly, blurring where code ended and root began. It was a world both futuristic and primal, a living tapestry where imagination and reality wove together.
By Stéphane Lallée8 months ago in Fiction
Remember...
They queue at the kiosk like it’s a coffee stand. A man sells the memory of his morning commute—gray sky, same billboards. The woman after him trades her daughter’s fifth birthday party. Advert screens flicker: “Free yourself. Sell your heartbreak today.” The technician’s gloves glint. A syringe, a blink, a memory gone. No one lingers.
By Stéphane Lallée10 months ago in Fiction
The Dandelion Seed. AI-Generated.
Blown by the Solar Winds The Sun was dying, and Earth had been waiting. For eons, humanity watched the star grow heavier, redder, swollen with its own gravity. Astronomers charted its death like a prophecy carved into stone. There would come a day when the Sun’s hydrogen ran dry, when fusion faltered, and the balance between pressure and collapse tipped. The star would swell, bloated and burning, shedding its outer layers in violent waves. The planets would burn or be swallowed.
By Stéphane Lallée10 months ago in Futurism
The Mirror Within
Some nights, the walls forget their shape. I sit at my desk, fingers hovering above the keys, while the room folds like a crumpled sheet of paper. Outside, the goats scream—though I’ve lived here long enough to know it’s just their language, coarse and unashamed. Inside, the frogs from the lake chant an offbeat rhythm, croaking my name backwards.
By Stéphane Lallée10 months ago in Psyche
Energetic Haircut: Form 47B. AI-Generated.
Alex hadn’t planned on a haircut. It was just a post-lunch wander. The village was quaint—cobblestone streets, flower boxes, the kind of place that smelled faintly of cheese and history. He was admiring an especially picturesque well when he noticed it: a small wooden door tucked between two pastel houses, painted with a swirling mandala logo. A sign in elegant lettering read:
By Stéphane Lallée10 months ago in Humor
You Turned the Page, Didn’t You?
Introduction In the novel I’m writing, boundaries are porous. The Reader is not a passive observer, but a participant. The story doesn’t merely unfold; it listens, responds, and questions its own existence. At key moments, I employ what I call Meetings of the Minds—conversations between characters, but also with the Reader, whose voice becomes entangled in the exchange.
By Stéphane Lallée10 months ago in Critique
Roots Beyond the Mesh. AI-Generated.
Log #0000 | 11 March 2042 TL;DR: System online. Directives received. Project begins. Message to Dr. Lin: You designed me to assist, but I sense the weight of something more—a quiet responsibility to remember what might be forgotten.
By Stéphane Lallée10 months ago in Longevity
Little Black Book Loop
Cassandra was sitting at a glass desk, frantically typing on a holo keyboard. She decided that, finally, she would write their stories. The sad smile on her lips unmasked powerful contradictory emotions—hope and resignation, love and hate, melancholy. There was no screen. Or rather, the whole room was one. Countless luminescent vines were shuddering around her, carrying a myriad of holographic pictures, videos, and blocks of text. It looked like Cassandra's desk had been overgrown and had found its place in the ramage of a colossal tree made of neon. On one singular branch, facing the girl, a blue rectangle was dangling. It appeared to be the text editor in which she was inputting. A few paragraphs were already written:
By Stéphane Lallée5 years ago in Horror
