This post is part of StoryADay May #StoryADay #StoryADayMay @storyadaymay #freeshortstory and of the Thursday Doors Writing Challenge #ThursdayDoors

So begins the 2025 Story A Day May, when, as part of Julie Duffy’s challenge, I write and post a short (often VERY short) story each day of May. This is also the month of the Thursday Doors Writing Challenge, hosted by Dan Antion, so my Thursday stories feature doors and, by special request, Steffie the spy.

Steffie Gets Gruff

by Marian Allen

The paella she had ordered had been delicious, but she was happy to bring half of it home so she could add some ground adobo pepper to it. Everything was better for a little spice, in Steffie’s opinion.

This vacation, for example. It was all the better for not being able to drive through the delicate xeriscape. Her small rental hacienda wasn’t that far from the village, and she enjoyed the exercise, so long as it was in the morning or the late afternoon, like now, when the temperature was pleasant – for a given value of “pleasant”.

Her Arizona vacation of the year before had turned out to be more eventful than she had liked, so she had come to Mexico, hoping for a week of peace. She had had nearly a week of peace and had hoped it would continue.

But no. As she approached the house, she could feel someone behind her.

Mindful of the brittle vegetation beneath her feet, she turned carefully.

He wasn’t even pretending to creep up on her. There was certainly nothing to hide behind. He just strolled along, hands in pockets, scuffing his feet as if he owned the earth beneath them, possibly imagining he looked benign.

Two could play that game.

“Hi,” Steffie said. “You lost?”

“No,” he said. “I’m right where I was headed.”

“I’d ask you in for a beer, but I’m fresh out.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I brought my own.”

She moved her paella carry-out box just in time to catch the knife he’d whipped out and aimed for her heart. Cardboard wouldn’t stop a sharp knife but, in Steffie’s expert hands, it would catch it and deflect it harmlessly. Spoiled the leftovers, though, dammit.

He called her a bad name, and he called it loudly.

There was a scrabbling from the other side of the roof.

“Who’s that?” He drew a gun from one pocket and a suppressor from another and fitted them together in what he meant to be menacing slowness.

“A neighbor’s kid. The roof goes almost to the ground in the back and they like to play up there.”

“Too bad for them,” he said. He lifted his head ever so slightly. “Hey, kid! Come on over!”

“Come on,” Steffie called, having had almost a week of growing friendship with the neighbor and his dependents. “Come see this TROLL!”

The roof tiles rang with the hooves of the neighbor’s kid, who slid down the near side of the roof and launched itself onto the gunman as Steffie kicked the gun out of his hand before he could fire a shot.

The kid was followed by its big brother and then by its great big brother. Horns got involved, along with twelve very sharp hooves.

The three followed Steffie to her door, smiling as only happy goats can smile, as she reached inside and broke off three strands of the hacienda’s potted ivy to feed them. They had been quick learners.

What was left of the body would be gone by morning, cleared away by coyotes. Steffie hated the damage the scuffle had done to the land, but it had been as minimal as possible, and mostly done by the place’s own fauna, so at least it was natural damage.

For a given value of “natural”.

MY PROMPT FOR TODAY: Teagan Geneviene‘s picture of a leaping goat.

MA