Note: This was a story I wrote for a project my Mother’s involved in. But it wasn’t quite what she had needed, so I’m going to write another version of this story. But since I think this version is kinda cute, since it’s based on a childhood memory, I’ll publish it here.

In China town, New York, lobsters were cheap. For this reason, my mother, who came from Finland where lobsters weren’t cheap, liked to buy a whole bunch of them and throw lobster parties for her visiting Scandinavian friends. We bought them from a little Chinese shop a couple of blocks away from our home. My father was usually the one who went out to buy the lobsters. He would let me come with him since I was so eager to see the lobsters in their water tanks. Since I was under the age of five, my father had to hold my hand while walking towards the shop – I would be pulling him along the whole way. It was always up to him to be able to hold on to my hand and to keep up with my speed. In the shop he would let me run from tank to tank. He even would let me choose which ones I would like to take home. I was always thrilled with this part, believing they would be my new pets. However, when we got home I would realize to my horror that my parents were planing to cook and eat every single lobster. I would protest, demanding that they should be spared. My parents would ignore me, lighting the stove. While my father dropped lobster after lobster into the boiling water, I ran into my room, crawled under my bed and put my fingers into my ears. At times mother came to check on me. She would ask me what the matter was. I would always answer in a melancholic tone:

”I can hear them screaming”

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