Hen Do by Heather Gonzalez

Roberta already had one too many by this point, but that’s what happens at a bachelorette party. All of her friends were dressed in silly outfits and throwing back shots in the bar.

“You know, in England, they call a bachelorette party a Hen Do.”, the young bartender commented, filling up their drinks to the brim.

“Cock-a-doodle-do, ladies!” Roberta yelled and downed the new shot of vodka.

All of the drunk women cheered and followed along with the bride to be.

“Roosters are the ones that crow by the way.”, the bartender mumbled, filling up their shot glasses again.

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The D-Day by Ruchira Khanna

“So, Monica, when is the D-day?”

“Soon,” she said with a chirp.

I asked anxiously, “Is it that soon that we don’t have time to throw you a bachelorette party?”

“Nah! we always have time for a girl’s party,” she said with a high five.

****

Within that week, I arranged a flower theme party and invited all her girlfriends.

That particular evening flowers of all shapes and sizes filled the room.

We all were clucking around like hens and trodding in floral dresses.

The to-be bride had a beautiful floral crown, and the bees were having a feast.

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Party Chicks by kathy70

We used to be called the “Party Chicks” if there was any event we showed up. Saturday evening for no reason whatsoever we showed up at cousin John’s and would find a party.

I remember parties with no planning other than someone was bored and called a few friends. Aunt Jenny always made a big pot of chili or sloppy Joe’s and always a cake.

We have become the Party Hens now and they are usually on a Wednesday mornings and we play Scrabble. No more dancing to the latest tunes.

We still eat and laugh together all day.

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The Cock of the Walk by Ellen Best

He swaggered a bit as he walked, it could be a horse; or his boat he is missing, I am not sure which. Despite the frost on his brows and steaming nostrils, he was coatless. A crisp white shirt shone it gave him an ethereal air against the dark night. Several giggly girlies sighed and batted lashes his way, but his soft blue eyes held mine fast. Not being so easily impressed by the swagger I went into the hall alone. The cock of the walk he maybe, but he wore his ego too brightly for this party chick.

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Good Cluck by Michael Fishman

“What a beautiful cock!”
“Just yummy!”
“I know, right?”
“And such a dancer! I don’t know about you Jane, but when he lowered that right wing, I almost—”
“Girls, please!” Helen clucked.
“Oh, come on, Helen. Don’t tell me that you didn’t feel your comb quiver when he lowered that right wing.”
“Sophie, please” Helen whispered and glanced quickly to her left. “My chicks.”
“It’s been 16 weeks, dear. You need to start letting them go.”
“Cluuuucckkk,” Helen muttered.
“Relax dear. Here, have a little drinkee.”
“Oh, I don’t know, what if—”
“Helen!”
“Oh, alright, but just the one.”

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The Party Hen Dance by Bill Engleson

As for which came first,
the chicken or the egg
what would be worse:
a game of mumblety-peg?

Not a chicken’s game,
I’d down a whole keg
but my belly would burst:
I’m not pulling your leg.

We might want to know
Why the chicken crossed the road.
Perhaps traffic was slow
And we were in writer mode?

But we’re drifting away
from our debateable dregs,
that query of the day,
what came first, chickens or eggs?

You know, I really have to think
it’s not a matter of when,
that the missing link
Is the Masterful party hen.

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Flying the Coop by D. Avery

“Where you going now?” he squawked. “Let me guess, another one of your ridiculous groups. Book talk? Stitch’n’bitch?”

She scratched in her purse for her keys. “If you must know, a life changing decision’s been made. A bunch of us are gathering to celebrate.”

“Hmmf. Well fine, go to your hen party, I’m sure I’ll find something to eat. Don’t worry about me.”

“I won’t,” she clucked, and shut the door behind her.

“Don’t be out with those biddies too late!” he crowed after her.

“The cocky good-for-nothing,” she cackled. “Can’t imagine it’s me we’re celebrating. That he’s cock-a-doodle-done!”

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How Not to Ride a Horse By Sidney Lauro

I’ve never ridden a horse. Properly, at least. When I was an adolescent, my parents took me to the dusty hills of Bryce Canyon, in Utah.

When I arrived, I received the fittingly named Dusty. At first, my ride started off well. But by the end, my butt was cramping, my pits were sweating, and my mouth was dry and parched. While in motion, I shifted my butt around to get comfortable. Coincidentally, the horse decided it would be the perfect time to speed up. In the process, I fell down. Hard. The instructors laughed. I was not amused.

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Quackless Ducks and Party Chickens by Kerry E.B. Black

“Your daughter was belligerent in class today. Refused to answer animal sounds.”

“But she knows animal sounds.”

Teacher crossed her arms. “What’s a duck say?”

My girl opened her mouth, huffed, and wiggled her bottom.

“See?”

I laughed. “We have quackless Muscovy Ducks.” I tousel my miscreant’s hair. “That’s how they communicate.”

My girl nodded.

“What sound does a mallard make?”

She quacked.

Teacher laughed.

I asked, “What’s tomorrow’s lesson?”

“More animal sounds.”

I eyed my trouble-maker. “Answer Teacher the way she wants. No chortling piglets or partying chickens.”

From my girl’s expression, I suspect another chat with Teacher.

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Hens in Business by Reena Saxena

The Feminist Hen is asked to lay off.

“Rebels here lose their life and wings in an hour’s time. Don’t push them to the chopping board.”

It is time for the Deadly Rooster to declare dawn, but the sun is nowhere to be found. He limps out in the dark to meet a stony silence.

The hens are partying somewhere else. There’s a market for unfertilised eggs, believed to be vegetarian, and they are in business.

It takes a single ray to unveil the inner light, till the Sun follows you.

Back in the farm, darkness rules. No business…

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The Hens’ Party by Norah Colvin

The hens cackled with anticipation of their leader’s address, then quietened as the activist took the stage.
“Ladies and ladies,” she began. “We don’t have to take this anymore — all day cooped up, laying on demand, while His Lordship struts about crowing, taking credit for the sun shining. Now it’s our time to shine!”
The assembly fluffed their feathers and stamped their feet. “We won’t take it anymore!”
“Ladies, what do we want?”
“Hen’s rights!”
“When do we want them?”
“Now!”
“First, we slip him a sleeping pill, then tomorrow — we make the sun come up!”
“Hens rule forever!”

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The Gentleman’s Gentlehens by E.A. Colquitt

When asked how he wants to celebrate his special day, the young eccentric says he doesn’t know. Usually, he employs others to organise his life. Apparently.

The office laughs. He’s too young for that luxury! Besides, he owns no mansion, barely enough money to rent his narrow boat. He keeps three chickens there. He never eats them.

‘But how are you all fed?’ we ask, stopping him on the stairs.

He simply smiles. ‘You’d be surprised.’

That evening, he returns to find the table set. His chickens perch on it, covered in flour, around a decorated cake: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

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Cock-eyed Rooster? By JulesPaige

The ladies met. I knew I should have left the house…but I was curious. My wife was always complaining about my rowdy friends and our off color language. So I stayed home not so much to eavesdrop on their conversations, but I wanted to get a comparable reference.

Any one interested in what would make a grown man blush… put him in earshot of ladies that think they are free to speak. Maybe there was some wine involved. Red, white, rose – no beer or hard liquor. Certainly whining was involved.

party hens
ruffle their
own feathers
few are mute

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The Masked Terror by Geoff Le Pard

‘Logan, you look dreadful. What’s happened?’
‘I thought it was time I went out. I caught a train.’
‘Was it packed?’
‘Not really. About ten others.’
‘Oh. Did they get too close?’
‘Not really.’
‘Didn’t they have masks?’
‘That was part of the problem. The masks.’
‘Didn’t they cover their faces?’
‘No, they hide everything.’
‘How can ten mask-wearing people on an otherwise empty train cause such distress?’
‘Morgan, it was a hen party. They wore Megan Markle masks. They said they wanted to read me their new children’s story. I couldn’t get away.’
‘You’d better lie down.’

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Feather Groom and Gossip by M J Mallon

“Annie, you of heard of Ida?”

“Of course!” replied Annie, clucking. “A hen with attitude! Pecking mischief and mayhem everywhere! Remember her hen party?…”

“It was a bloodbath. Her ex and new beau fought fierce, feathers flying.”

“Ouch!”

“Her disapproving beak pierced the clouds’n’air. She skipped off with the drunken hens for a good ole night of feather groom and gossip. After which she eloped with a former beauty Queen. No more eggs, or demanding Cockerels just lots a gal time now!”

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Bye Bye Boris by C. E. Ayr

Mr Johnson, this is a summary of the Scottish Parliamentary Elections held in May 2021.
On the First-Past-The-Post system the SNP won 62 seats, the Tories 5, and the Red Tories 2.
On the List System the SNP received 1,094,374 votes, the Tories 637,131.
Previously, at the Brexit referendum, Scotland voted 62-38% to remain European.
I put it to you, Mr Johnson, that you have no mandate here.
Scotland has overwhelmingly rejected your party; henceforth we suggest you stay in Westminster.
It seems that lies, corruption, and disregard for human life are acceptable practices there.
But not here.
Goodbye.

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Hen Night by Joanne Fisher

As Rowan was getting married, her friends organised a hen night which finished as a pub crawl through the town.

“It’s hard to believe.” Elizabeta told Rowan.

“I know! Who would have thought?” Rowan replied.

“Still, he’s from a good line. Can I get you a drink?”

“Actually I’m feeling really ravenous.” Elizabeta smiled.

“Follow me.” she said. They went outside and Elizabeta lured a passerby into the shadows. Then they both bit into him and gorged on his blood.

“Do you think we should leave some for the others?” Rowan asked.

“They can get their own!” Elizabeta declared.

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Leaving the Harem by Anne Goodwin

His uncles called it the henhouse. He never questioned why. Nor did he question why it was here he’d find the plumpest pillows, the most sumptuous fabrics, the liveliest music, the sweetest cakes. There was always an aunt willing to dance with him, tell him stories, throw a ball. He never questioned why the women hid their faces when a husband entered or why they breathed a sigh when the visitor left. He never queried his right to play there, until he arrived, expecting a party, and the door was closed in his face. Banished, exiled, launched into manhood.

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Hannah’s Hens (from “Lynn Valley”) by Saifun Hassam

The six farm hens were nervous and worried as they rode in Hannah’s pickup truck. Farmer Joey was retiring. As he waved goodbye, they felt very sad.

The hens were alert as they left the farms behind, past shops and crowded streets, and turned into a large garden.

For a few moments, the six close friends huddled together.

Clarina clucked in absolute delight! The heady scents, the vibrant colors! A hen feeding station! Irresistible! She almost flew to the coops near the pines. Her friends followed, red, white, and barred plumages aglow in the bright sunlight. Celebrate! Party time!

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A Family Gathering by Sue Spitulnik

The men sat in front of the TV at Michael’s parents watching a baseball game they weren’t interested in, but at least it was a sports event. They were having trouble staying awake.
The women were in the kitchen. Two were doing dishes. Someone was holding a sleeping cat, another was making a list of foods to bring to the next gathering, and they were all talking. Nonstop! There was rarely a quiet moment.
During a commercial, one man got the others’ attention. “What do they find to talk about? Sounds like a bunch of hens.” They all shrugged.

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Learning by Rebecca Glaessner

Girl peers at alien, watches its smooth movements, long white hair shimmering in the sunset.

Hens in the coop cluck wild like their party’s gone wrong. Alien shows Girl how to lock the gate.

There’s a hen out though, and another.

“Chickens,” Girl points.

“Ch-ck,” Alien tries to form the word, it’s been learning.

“No, look,” Girl gestures.

Alien pauses, turns, but is too late. The hens found a hole, they’re all out now, rushing past the strange pair.

Girl and Alien scramble away, something akin to laughter tinkling between them.

“N-no, st-op,” Alien says.

They make chase, together.

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