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 (315)
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Little Red Sells Her Hood
They still call me Red. Never mind that I’ve worn black for a decade now—sharp black, tailored, the kind that says "I bite back." Never mind the PhD in Behavioral Economics or the four zeroes on my corporate retainer. In the minutes of every meeting, I’m still "Red."
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
A Letter from the Last Witch Left
I write this not with ink, but with ash and breath and the last heat of a dying fire. Child of the age to come, hear me. The trees remember what you have forgotten. The wind mourns what you silence. The stars keep turning, even as you blind your eyes to their warnings. You think you are alone. You are not. You think you are free. You are not.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Refused to Die in the Script
The boy was supposed to die in Chapter Eleven. It was all written—clear as day, black ink on white paper. A tragic fall. A final breath. Tears. Regret. A lesson for the survivors. That kind of death. Meaningful, dramatic, necessary.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Grew A Forest Inside Her
Once, not so very long ago, there was a girl who grew a forest inside her. She was not born with it. Not exactly. At first, she was like other children—soft, open, curious. But life, as it does, began to press on her. Small losses. Sharp words. The kind of loneliness that doesn't show. The kind of silence that fills a room. The world asked her to be small, to take up less space, to smile when she didn't want to. And slowly, little by little, she began to fold inward.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
