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 (319)
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The Candle, the Soup, the Walk
Winter does not arrive with a calendar date. It enters slowly, like a shadow lengthening across the room. First, the evenings slip away earlier than I notice. Then the sound of the world changes: footsteps on the pavement sharpen, voices outside seem to fall back into echoes. And then there is the stillness — an almost imperceptible pause that settles over the air. That is when I know it has come. Winter begins not in snow or frost, but in the silence that draws me inward.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Humans
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 SUPPINI5 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 SUPPINI5 months ago in Fiction
