The Parts of a Feather

Part Five- Shaft

There's always that one element to a trip that makes it memorable, be it the adventures in unknown territory or even the late night campfires on a wide stretch of beach. It could even be the bonds forged with people that you knew all your life to only a few months, and, hell, it can be the people you meet in that shanty soda shoppe or overly tacky gift shop full of shells with googly eyes glued on them.

Fortunately, there were no such gift shops there, let alone a shanty soda shoppe. That isn't to say that we all had a good time there, and the day we spent at the beach was a simple pleasure remembered by all. In fact, the one thing that made this event great was the fact that we were all alive and well. When we were on the beach jumping in and out of the water, looking at the sites and shops that made this a local touring destination, and of course roasting marshmallows.

But the one thing that made the whole trip stand out, apart from Milo's kiss, was something all of us discussed about while we were on the beach roasting the marshmallows and keeping the chill wind away. The sky was clear like it usually was, but tonight the sky was so clear that the Milky Way could be seen, seamlessly standing motionless as if it had been for centuries. It was low tide as well, and with the calm sea stretching out before us it seemed to reflect the star lit night above it. I couldn't tell exactly, but that's what it seemed like to me.

It was odd how it started because the moment before hand we were deep into a discussion about jellybeans, of all things, but then my dad said something kind of odd.

He had just finished making a perfect smore when he took notice of us trying to figure out which were the worst kind of jellybeans.

"Jemilia, you're crazy. The margarita beans are horrible! Not because they taste bad but you're leading kids onto becoming alcoholics." Milo obviously had a list of beans he hated, even if they tasted good there seemed to be a reason.

"Says the kid who has a fancy for the licorice beans," she objected. "Dude, those are the bottom of the bottom. NOBODY likes licorice beans because NOBODY likes them in their actual from EITHER."

"At least nobody is blaming the vanilla lover here," I noted. I had a fancy for vanilla, and truth be told the vanilla beans are not that bad.

"I will say that there's one bean that baffles me, and I have a good reason," Jemila said. She pointed her finger at me. "Buttered popcorn."

"So what?" I said. "I just have a liking for them that's all."

That's when my dad said something that made all three of us stop dead in our tracks.

"Well, that's racist."

I looked at him, beyond perplexed. He just sat there in his good camping khakis and old t-shirt eating his smore, his hair a mess from the wind and because of the fact that it was naturally messy. That and his dark, sandy eyes reflected his wings, a pair that had many ruffled feathers that were full of pale gold and blue hues. He also wore a pair of circular glasses.

"Excuse me?" I asked, sounding serious.

He shrugged his shoulders. "You're basing your own opinion of beans off of their taste and nothing else."

"Yeah, but it's food. You're suppose to base it off taste."

"What about people, hm?" He finished off another bite of the smore. "Why base people off of their actions and what they've done? "

"Mr. DiAngelo," Jemilia said, "there's a huge difference with jellybeans and people."

"I know, but if I pulled out a hand full of beans you would go for the ones that you liked and leave the ones you didn't like behind. Now, these might have been ones that tasted amazing, but because they were red or black or green you just didn't go for them."