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Story Writing - Write your stories

  I used to tell everybody that I didn’t have enemies. I really didn’t think I had any. I knew no one who was out to get me. My relationships were not perfect but I didn’t think anybody hated me. I was forced to think about my enemies , though, in one interview I attended. “ Suppose the current employees refuse to work with you, what would you do?” one of the interviewers asked. “ I would find a way for us to work together,” I said. “I tend to get on with people.” I had been confident in that conviction. That was before I had met my supervisor and that bus driver, but after I had met Mas Joe. “ Are you saying that you have no enemies?” That lady was persistent. “ None that I know of,” I had responded. “ Everybody has enemies,” she had told me, every one of her words imbued with a certainty that she had dared me to question. Since then, I had tried to figure out the meaning of that word — enemy. One dictionary told me that an enemy “is a person who is actively hostile to