(prompt: ‘straight’ July 17 2020)
“He said W-O-T?”
“Let me get this straight. He REALLY said you were nought but a feather-head full of farty features?”
Dimity dropped her beak. Later, those nearest to her would say it definitely trembled.
“Well-ll pluck me! … and you weren’t outraged?” Boadicea was. No mistaking when her feathers were seriously ruffled.
“Not a single cluck, you say?”
Dimity pursed her beak, ducking her small neat head demurely. Beneath that smooth little helmet of feathers she blushed at a furious rate similar to the wig-wag warning lights at a train crossing.
The brave, outspoken Boadicea was never backward about coming forward — a born leader among hens — and once again, it would be said in loftier circles, that ‘Hell hath no Fury, like a Woman Scorned’, with the muttered addendum, ‘likewise a battle-seasoned old chook, unafraid to cry foul when wronged’.
“I can’t believe he’s still using that tired old cock and bull approach, after all these seasons. The barnyard’s full of tales about that ageing reprobate.”
“I’d have clucked out loud and long,” chipped in Henrietta, always one to stick her beak in to get a piece of the action. “Otherwise, you know how the girls gossip. They’ll be clucking and sticky-beaking about this for days.”
Following the deepest of sighs ending in a sad-sounding ‘cr-a-a-w-w-k’, those clustered nearest to Dimity heard her mutter, “I thought talk was cheep, and I didn’t want to be a fussbudget kind of fowl.”
Eve S. Dropper muttered out the side of her beak, “… and I’d be worried about that old ‘birds of a feather’ blame game, if I were you.”
Dimity squawked, “W-H-A-A-A-A-T?” with eyes stretched impossibly wide. She wasn’t chicken-hearted by any stretch of the imagination, but still… she had never considered blame could someday be laid in front of her chicken roost. She kept her beak clean and her hen-house in order at all times. Of course, it was true she had genetic ties to the old boy, but that didn’t give him the right to lord it over her, even if he WAS cock of the walk. She felt her indignation growing and suddenly spoke up so aggressively, she shocked herself.
“The more I brood on it, the more outraged I am. Boadicea! You’re right!”
The wise old hen nodded sharply, “Aha! Just as I thought. The feathers don’t fall far from the nest-box, you know!”
“… and we have the added bonus of giving the humans cackleberries. Lifts our odds hen-house high, if you ask me!”
Dimity fluffed her wings and nestled back into the pecking order of the birds of a feather who flock together.
In her birdbrain, she called him Bok Choy for short… but not for long, she hoped. Only those who spoke fluent Henish could understand the great outcry of clucking as all present at the hen’s party agreed.