Strike. Strike. Strike. What they want me to strike for? I was pretty content with what I was doing and what I was being paid. They complained a lot, but this was my first big girl job and I thought I was being treated pretty fairly. Hmm… What to do.
I had a hard time striking out at the man in front of me. I knew it was a dangerous area. I knew that I shouldn’t be there alone but did that stop me? No, against my mothers warnings I still ventured out at night and always found myself in trouble.
I thought strike was yesterday. I guess I missed yesterday. The strike that I didn’t think about was striking someone. He struck her with such force that she went flying to the ground. She got up and struck him back and knocked him out.
Strike. That dreaded word any boss of any company cringes at when he or she hears it. Labor unions constantly throw this word around as a veiled threat to get their way. Yet for the boss, the fear it strikes in their hearts when the almighty bottom line is at stake. Shut down production? Lose money. Horrors! Strike is the ultimate bargaining chip.
I went on stike today, so tired of all the bullshit. If they want clean clothes, they can wash them themselves. I’m done being a maid. My mom said this time and time again, but never follwed through.
A singular strike into my heart. You aim your words with such accuracy, such precision; there’s no collateral damage when you’re out to end a life, I’m sure. No crying civilians, no refugees huddled in rags. Just your target, lying on the floor, dead as stone. Cold as rock.
I remember quite a number of years ago when the teachers were on strike and I went out with them to demonstrate. The only good strike I can think of is when big ben strikes midnight on new year’s eve.
When I think of the word “strike,” I think of:
– hit
– target
– connect
– meet
– align
– power
– force
– strength
– action
– fortune
Strike. Strike. Strike. What they want me to strike for? I was pretty content with what I was doing and what I was being paid. They complained a lot, but this was my first big girl job and I thought I was being treated pretty fairly. Hmm… What to do.
I had a hard time striking out at the man in front of me. I knew it was a dangerous area. I knew that I shouldn’t be there alone but did that stop me? No, against my mothers warnings I still ventured out at night and always found myself in trouble.
I was thinking of my ex husband that used to abuse me..
I am doingg the strike right now.Hitting him right in the face.He is so supriced,he didnt expect that from me.
I thought strike was yesterday. I guess I missed yesterday. The strike that I didn’t think about was striking someone. He struck her with such force that she went flying to the ground. She got up and struck him back and knocked him out.
They say lightening never strikes twice. But does, and it has, and sometimes it is more than twice, tis thrice.
A thunderous cloud, a storm, something this way comes.
To crash, to bury into the ground, to spread its spider webs and ghostly fingers till its course is run.
Strike. That dreaded word any boss of any company cringes at when he or she hears it. Labor unions constantly throw this word around as a veiled threat to get their way. Yet for the boss, the fear it strikes in their hearts when the almighty bottom line is at stake. Shut down production? Lose money. Horrors! Strike is the ultimate bargaining chip.
I sat by the window. Cold, shivering in the dark of the storm. A strike of lightning slapped the ground under my window.
I went on stike today, so tired of all the bullshit. If they want clean clothes, they can wash them themselves. I’m done being a maid. My mom said this time and time again, but never follwed through.
A singular strike into my heart. You aim your words with such accuracy, such precision; there’s no collateral damage when you’re out to end a life, I’m sure. No crying civilians, no refugees huddled in rags. Just your target, lying on the floor, dead as stone. Cold as rock.
something about hitting something or someone in a fast motion or aiming before taking a hit
I’m struck by the lightning bugs in my stomach, by the tingles that make themselves up my toes into my fingers and into my bones.
Bone crushed bone. “Get up.” His husky voice scraped over the slick of the blood in his ear. Inner bicep. Cheekbone. Below the sternum. Neck-
I remember quite a number of years ago when the teachers were on strike and I went out with them to demonstrate. The only good strike I can think of is when big ben strikes midnight on new year’s eve.