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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A Guide to Post-Authenticity Living
Welcome to the Simulation Reality is overrated. It was glitchy, unpredictable, full of shadows and weird smells. But now? Now we live in a perfectly curated feed. Authenticity collapsed under the weight of its own hashtags, and in its place: Post-Authenticity Living™ — streamlined, strategic, simulated.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Futurism
Welcome to The Silence District
Welcome Home, Whisper Citizen! Congratulations! You've been selected for relocation to The Silence District — a state-of-the-art community where clarity, peace, and productivity reign supreme. Here, Noise is taxed, conversation is regulated, and tranquility is mandatory.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
Could Trump Run for a Third Term?
The Joke That Isn’t Funny Anymore When Donald Trump joked that he had already served "three terms," few in the audience laughed. He smiled, as he often does when testing the boundaries between provocation and ambition. In March 2025, he said flatly: “There are methods,” referring to a possible third presidential term. Suddenly, what once sounded like satire started to feel like strategy.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in The Swamp
The Algorithm Chose My Children
I used to think we’d have twins. I saw it in a dream once, two tiny girls with my eyes and Ava’s laugh. They were running through a hallway of sunlight, dragging a blanket behind them, shouting nonsense and joy. I woke up crying. It felt so real, so inevitable. For weeks after, we called them by name — Lira and June — like they were already part of our story.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Futurism
I Remember the Future
Static Blooming Time hiccups. That’s the only way I can describe it — a lurch in my chest, a stutter in the world. The colors shift too fast. My hand is holding a mug I don’t remember picking up, and the tea inside is cold, though I remember just pouring it.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Fiction
