AkiraAshSatires
@akiraashsatires.bsky.social
TUE | THUR | SAT • 11am (ET) Documentary Coded Fiction (DCF)™ — a new literary form (New Yorker cadence + Sedaris absurdity + code graffiti) © Helena Kate Rene, PhD | Writer & Slayer of Pedestrian Philistines
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November 11, 2025 at 4:43 PM
Thank you for reading 💛🥣
RT / Share if this found you at the right time.
Follow @AkiraAshSatires for more #DocumentaryCodedFiction, #FoodMemory essays, and Crown City stories.
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Follow @AkiraAshSatires for more #DocumentaryCodedFiction, #FoodMemory essays, and Crown City stories.
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10/10
The house quiet, everyone inside.
No prophecy. No instructions.
Just warmth passed down like a password.
Three ingredients saying:
Stay. Here. With us.
#AkiraAshSatires #DocumentaryCodedFiction
The house quiet, everyone inside.
No prophecy. No instructions.
Just warmth passed down like a password.
Three ingredients saying:
Stay. Here. With us.
#AkiraAshSatires #DocumentaryCodedFiction
November 11, 2025 at 4:42 PM
10/10
The house quiet, everyone inside.
No prophecy. No instructions.
Just warmth passed down like a password.
Three ingredients saying:
Stay. Here. With us.
#AkiraAshSatires #DocumentaryCodedFiction
The house quiet, everyone inside.
No prophecy. No instructions.
Just warmth passed down like a password.
Three ingredients saying:
Stay. Here. With us.
#AkiraAshSatires #DocumentaryCodedFiction
9/10
My husband’s hand at my back.
Our daughter running through the room in a cape yelling,
“When I grow up, I’ll marry whoever makes the best waffles!”
The real lineage.
#ModernFamily #LoveStory
My husband’s hand at my back.
Our daughter running through the room in a cape yelling,
“When I grow up, I’ll marry whoever makes the best waffles!”
The real lineage.
#ModernFamily #LoveStory
November 11, 2025 at 4:42 PM
9/10
My husband’s hand at my back.
Our daughter running through the room in a cape yelling,
“When I grow up, I’ll marry whoever makes the best waffles!”
The real lineage.
#ModernFamily #LoveStory
My husband’s hand at my back.
Our daughter running through the room in a cape yelling,
“When I grow up, I’ll marry whoever makes the best waffles!”
The real lineage.
#ModernFamily #LoveStory
7/10
Eventually the fever eased.
One soft tomato. One egg.
Tomato into crescents. Oil catching sugar into flame.
Egg streamed in slow—opening into handwriting practicing forgiveness.
#FoodAsMemory #LiteraryFiction
Eventually the fever eased.
One soft tomato. One egg.
Tomato into crescents. Oil catching sugar into flame.
Egg streamed in slow—opening into handwriting practicing forgiveness.
#FoodAsMemory #LiteraryFiction
November 11, 2025 at 4:41 PM
7/10
Eventually the fever eased.
One soft tomato. One egg.
Tomato into crescents. Oil catching sugar into flame.
Egg streamed in slow—opening into handwriting practicing forgiveness.
#FoodAsMemory #LiteraryFiction
Eventually the fever eased.
One soft tomato. One egg.
Tomato into crescents. Oil catching sugar into flame.
Egg streamed in slow—opening into handwriting practicing forgiveness.
#FoodAsMemory #LiteraryFiction
6/10
We pretend parents are telling us who to love.
They’re actually describing what safety means in their language.
#Intergenerational #WritingCommunity
We pretend parents are telling us who to love.
They’re actually describing what safety means in their language.
#Intergenerational #WritingCommunity
November 11, 2025 at 4:41 PM
6/10
We pretend parents are telling us who to love.
They’re actually describing what safety means in their language.
#Intergenerational #WritingCommunity
We pretend parents are telling us who to love.
They’re actually describing what safety means in their language.
#Intergenerational #WritingCommunity
5/10
My parents said the same thing, just in Mandarin:
Marry a nice Chinese boy with a dependable laugh and clean paperwork.
I didn’t rebel. I just waited for oxygen.
#DiasporaStories @electricliterature.com
My parents said the same thing, just in Mandarin:
Marry a nice Chinese boy with a dependable laugh and clean paperwork.
I didn’t rebel. I just waited for oxygen.
#DiasporaStories @electricliterature.com
November 11, 2025 at 4:41 PM
5/10
My parents said the same thing, just in Mandarin:
Marry a nice Chinese boy with a dependable laugh and clean paperwork.
I didn’t rebel. I just waited for oxygen.
#DiasporaStories @electricliterature.com
My parents said the same thing, just in Mandarin:
Marry a nice Chinese boy with a dependable laugh and clean paperwork.
I didn’t rebel. I just waited for oxygen.
#DiasporaStories @electricliterature.com
4/10
“Babe, you need to eat something,” he said.
His voice was the temperature I needed.
Meanwhile his mother had blessed our daughter earlier:
“When you grow up, you’ll marry a nice Jewish boy like your father.”
#FamilyLore #CulturalHumor
“Babe, you need to eat something,” he said.
His voice was the temperature I needed.
Meanwhile his mother had blessed our daughter earlier:
“When you grow up, you’ll marry a nice Jewish boy like your father.”
#FamilyLore #CulturalHumor
November 11, 2025 at 4:40 PM
4/10
“Babe, you need to eat something,” he said.
His voice was the temperature I needed.
Meanwhile his mother had blessed our daughter earlier:
“When you grow up, you’ll marry a nice Jewish boy like your father.”
#FamilyLore #CulturalHumor
“Babe, you need to eat something,” he said.
His voice was the temperature I needed.
Meanwhile his mother had blessed our daughter earlier:
“When you grow up, you’ll marry a nice Jewish boy like your father.”
#FamilyLore #CulturalHumor
3/10
I texted my husband: Emergency. Soup.
He didn’t ask which kind. He just went.
Came back with Vietnamese broth—ginger, cilantro, steady.
Not the soup I meant. But the kindness was exact.
#LoveLanguage #ActsOfService
I texted my husband: Emergency. Soup.
He didn’t ask which kind. He just went.
Came back with Vietnamese broth—ginger, cilantro, steady.
Not the soup I meant. But the kindness was exact.
#LoveLanguage #ActsOfService
November 11, 2025 at 4:40 PM
3/10
I texted my husband: Emergency. Soup.
He didn’t ask which kind. He just went.
Came back with Vietnamese broth—ginger, cilantro, steady.
Not the soup I meant. But the kindness was exact.
#LoveLanguage #ActsOfService
I texted my husband: Emergency. Soup.
He didn’t ask which kind. He just went.
Came back with Vietnamese broth—ginger, cilantro, steady.
Not the soup I meant. But the kindness was exact.
#LoveLanguage #ActsOfService
2/10
Not restaurant soup. Home soup.
Tomatoes blistering in oil. Water. Salt.
Egg poured thin so it turns to lace.
White pepper like a memory clearing its throat behind you.
@parisreview.bsky.social #AsianHomeCooking
Not restaurant soup. Home soup.
Tomatoes blistering in oil. Water. Salt.
Egg poured thin so it turns to lace.
White pepper like a memory clearing its throat behind you.
@parisreview.bsky.social #AsianHomeCooking
November 11, 2025 at 4:39 PM
2/10
Not restaurant soup. Home soup.
Tomatoes blistering in oil. Water. Salt.
Egg poured thin so it turns to lace.
White pepper like a memory clearing its throat behind you.
@parisreview.bsky.social #AsianHomeCooking
Not restaurant soup. Home soup.
Tomatoes blistering in oil. Water. Salt.
Egg poured thin so it turns to lace.
White pepper like a memory clearing its throat behind you.
@parisreview.bsky.social #AsianHomeCooking
10/10
“You gave me the way home.” He holds me, won’t reach beyond. The heel shows a thin line of my blood; he wipes it slow. “I didn’t see them.” “I know. Your eyes were on me.” Windows die in sequence. Last square goes black. #NightWalk
Companion to “Night Ride” ▶️ bsky.app/profile/akir...
“You gave me the way home.” He holds me, won’t reach beyond. The heel shows a thin line of my blood; he wipes it slow. “I didn’t see them.” “I know. Your eyes were on me.” Windows die in sequence. Last square goes black. #NightWalk
Companion to “Night Ride” ▶️ bsky.app/profile/akir...
Night Ride
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@theoffingmag.bsky.social
@guernica.bsky.social
@pshares.bsky.social
#DocumentaryCodedFiction #AkiraAshSatires #LiteraryFiction
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@theoffingmag.bsky.social
@guernica.bsky.social
@pshares.bsky.social
#DocumentaryCodedFiction #AkiraAshSatires #LiteraryFiction
November 8, 2025 at 4:50 PM
10/10
“You gave me the way home.” He holds me, won’t reach beyond. The heel shows a thin line of my blood; he wipes it slow. “I didn’t see them.” “I know. Your eyes were on me.” Windows die in sequence. Last square goes black. #NightWalk
Companion to “Night Ride” ▶️ bsky.app/profile/akir...
“You gave me the way home.” He holds me, won’t reach beyond. The heel shows a thin line of my blood; he wipes it slow. “I didn’t see them.” “I know. Your eyes were on me.” Windows die in sequence. Last square goes black. #NightWalk
Companion to “Night Ride” ▶️ bsky.app/profile/akir...
9/10
He sits beside me. I fix his collar; fingers find buttons—love is real, not rumor. He catches my wrist—light, not law. “Stay with me.” “I am.” My hand over his heart: a steady metronome. “I can’t give you a square like that.” @newyorker.com #romanceNoir
He sits beside me. I fix his collar; fingers find buttons—love is real, not rumor. He catches my wrist—light, not law. “Stay with me.” “I am.” My hand over his heart: a steady metronome. “I can’t give you a square like that.” @newyorker.com #romanceNoir
November 8, 2025 at 4:44 PM
9/10
He sits beside me. I fix his collar; fingers find buttons—love is real, not rumor. He catches my wrist—light, not law. “Stay with me.” “I am.” My hand over his heart: a steady metronome. “I can’t give you a square like that.” @newyorker.com #romanceNoir
He sits beside me. I fix his collar; fingers find buttons—love is real, not rumor. He catches my wrist—light, not law. “Stay with me.” “I am.” My hand over his heart: a steady metronome. “I can’t give you a square like that.” @newyorker.com #romanceNoir
8/10
“I saw every one of them looking at you.” Window squares: other people’s mercy. “I don’t pay tonight. You beside me is enough to be remembered—then a knock, a favor, a friend who goes quiet.” @parisreview.bsky.social
“I saw every one of them looking at you.” Window squares: other people’s mercy. “I don’t pay tonight. You beside me is enough to be remembered—then a knock, a favor, a friend who goes quiet.” @parisreview.bsky.social
November 8, 2025 at 4:44 PM
8/10
“I saw every one of them looking at you.” Window squares: other people’s mercy. “I don’t pay tonight. You beside me is enough to be remembered—then a knock, a favor, a friend who goes quiet.” @parisreview.bsky.social
“I saw every one of them looking at you.” Window squares: other people’s mercy. “I don’t pay tonight. You beside me is enough to be remembered—then a knock, a favor, a friend who goes quiet.” @parisreview.bsky.social
7/10
“Because I won’t watch you pay my city.” The kettle clicks once. I touch rain-slick hair. “Thank you.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t see. The men.” Thumb maps my tendon like a street he grew up on. #noirprose @grantamag.bsky.social
“Because I won’t watch you pay my city.” The kettle clicks once. I touch rain-slick hair. “Thank you.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t see. The men.” Thumb maps my tendon like a street he grew up on. #noirprose @grantamag.bsky.social
November 8, 2025 at 4:43 PM
7/10
“Because I won’t watch you pay my city.” The kettle clicks once. I touch rain-slick hair. “Thank you.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t see. The men.” Thumb maps my tendon like a street he grew up on. #noirprose @grantamag.bsky.social
“Because I won’t watch you pay my city.” The kettle clicks once. I touch rain-slick hair. “Thank you.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t see. The men.” Thumb maps my tendon like a street he grew up on. #noirprose @grantamag.bsky.social
6/10
Meter ticks; streets unspool. His thumb finds my fingers—counting, not calming. HIS PLACE: narrow, clean, practiced. He kneels; leather sighs; cool air on hot skin. “I almost paid.” “Why?” #literaryfiction @electricliterature.com
Meter ticks; streets unspool. His thumb finds my fingers—counting, not calming. HIS PLACE: narrow, clean, practiced. He kneels; leather sighs; cool air on hot skin. “I almost paid.” “Why?” #literaryfiction @electricliterature.com
November 8, 2025 at 4:43 PM
6/10
Meter ticks; streets unspool. His thumb finds my fingers—counting, not calming. HIS PLACE: narrow, clean, practiced. He kneels; leather sighs; cool air on hot skin. “I almost paid.” “Why?” #literaryfiction @electricliterature.com
Meter ticks; streets unspool. His thumb finds my fingers—counting, not calming. HIS PLACE: narrow, clean, practiced. He kneels; leather sighs; cool air on hot skin. “I almost paid.” “Why?” #literaryfiction @electricliterature.com
5/10
A car idles at our pace, window low. He stops. We wait. It drifts. Rain again. The buckle bites—heat up my heel. I say nothing. A true cab where the district gives up. He opens the door like a sworn thing. #gritlit @pshares.bsky.social
A car idles at our pace, window low. He stops. We wait. It drifts. Rain again. The buckle bites—heat up my heel. I say nothing. A true cab where the district gives up. He opens the door like a sworn thing. #gritlit @pshares.bsky.social
November 8, 2025 at 4:43 PM
5/10
A car idles at our pace, window low. He stops. We wait. It drifts. Rain again. The buckle bites—heat up my heel. I say nothing. A true cab where the district gives up. He opens the door like a sworn thing. #gritlit @pshares.bsky.social
A car idles at our pace, window low. He stops. We wait. It drifts. Rain again. The buckle bites—heat up my heel. I say nothing. A true cab where the district gives up. He opens the door like a sworn thing. #gritlit @pshares.bsky.social
4/10
STREET PRICES—Cabs with cracked windows, prices not distances. A cop laughs under a lamp; ash freckles the wet. His palm answers first: “No.” We walk. He keeps me inside every street, reading glass and shadow. #citynight @newyorker.com
STREET PRICES—Cabs with cracked windows, prices not distances. A cop laughs under a lamp; ash freckles the wet. His palm answers first: “No.” We walk. He keeps me inside every street, reading glass and shadow. #citynight @newyorker.com
November 8, 2025 at 4:42 PM
4/10
STREET PRICES—Cabs with cracked windows, prices not distances. A cop laughs under a lamp; ash freckles the wet. His palm answers first: “No.” We walk. He keeps me inside every street, reading glass and shadow. #citynight @newyorker.com
STREET PRICES—Cabs with cracked windows, prices not distances. A cop laughs under a lamp; ash freckles the wet. His palm answers first: “No.” We walk. He keeps me inside every street, reading glass and shadow. #citynight @newyorker.com
3/10
Steps, cheap light. Summer rain drifts sideways. Pale shirt darkens where rain finds it. He angles to shield; weather says otherwise. Crooked collar left as ease. Alley: wet brick, old oil, star-anise steam. @parisreview.bsky.social #urbannoir
Steps, cheap light. Summer rain drifts sideways. Pale shirt darkens where rain finds it. He angles to shield; weather says otherwise. Crooked collar left as ease. Alley: wet brick, old oil, star-anise steam. @parisreview.bsky.social #urbannoir
November 8, 2025 at 4:42 PM
3/10
Steps, cheap light. Summer rain drifts sideways. Pale shirt darkens where rain finds it. He angles to shield; weather says otherwise. Crooked collar left as ease. Alley: wet brick, old oil, star-anise steam. @parisreview.bsky.social #urbannoir
Steps, cheap light. Summer rain drifts sideways. Pale shirt darkens where rain finds it. He angles to shield; weather says otherwise. Crooked collar left as ease. Alley: wet brick, old oil, star-anise steam. @parisreview.bsky.social #urbannoir
2/10
CONCERT HALL—The last note holds, breaks to applause. His shoulder touches mine: heat, soap, night. “Home,” I say. He nods. Ushers sweep; at each door he waits, quiet hand at my back. Eyes work corners. #noir #Beijing @grantamag.bsky.social
CONCERT HALL—The last note holds, breaks to applause. His shoulder touches mine: heat, soap, night. “Home,” I say. He nods. Ushers sweep; at each door he waits, quiet hand at my back. Eyes work corners. #noir #Beijing @grantamag.bsky.social
November 8, 2025 at 4:41 PM
2/10
CONCERT HALL—The last note holds, breaks to applause. His shoulder touches mine: heat, soap, night. “Home,” I say. He nods. Ushers sweep; at each door he waits, quiet hand at my back. Eyes work corners. #noir #Beijing @grantamag.bsky.social
CONCERT HALL—The last note holds, breaks to applause. His shoulder touches mine: heat, soap, night. “Home,” I say. He nods. Ushers sweep; at each door he waits, quiet hand at my back. Eyes work corners. #noir #Beijing @grantamag.bsky.social