WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP! (4 Chapter Short Story)

Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp!

The Day the World Stopped Making Sense

by Nina Soden

Dedicated to Wayne and Tanja Miller

©2019 Nina Soden

Based on the character Lynne Loveless and the fictitious facts of the play BAMGILA written by Wayne Miller the leader of Evil Cheez Productions


I’m sure you’ve heard the story of the tragedy that befell Southern Alabama on the day Bamgila made his way out of the bay. It was over twenty years ago, August 2019, and I still remember it like it was yesterday.

Thousands were killed, more were injured, and hundreds were left homeless as billions were reported in property damage. It was a miracle how the community came together, over the five years following the tragedy, and rebuilt the city from the ashes left in Bamgila’s wake.

In order to explain what happened, I first have to tell you how it was that I came to live in Southern Alabama. I wasn’t born there, nor did I choose to make Mobile, Alabama my home; it was forced upon me. The journey had started ten years before Bamgila’s invasion in the summer of 2009. My husband, David, moved me, and our then 4-year-old daughter, Darby, from our home in Northern Washington to the depths of Alabama.

David’s work was transferring him, whether I liked it or not. He had cheated and I had considered letting him go without us, but for Darby’s sake, I decided to give our marriage one more chance. I had hoped that a new start would do us both some good. Besides, I had learned that my best friend from high school, Susan Miller, now Susan Garrison, had moved down to Mobile, Alabama about fifteen years earlier after marrying her husband. I hadn’t seen her in over twenty years, but we still talked from time to time and of course, we kept in touch through social media. Susan was a very successful real estate agent, with her own firm and a wall full of awards. She helped us find a home, my dream home, with a wrap around porch and a backyard pool.

Susan’s husband, Gill, helped get me a job at WCHZ, a local radio station. I quickly made a name for myself at the station and my co-workers became my family. I worked as an anchor, along side Walsh Chandler, one of the world’s most conservative republicans. He made Rush Limbaugh look liberal. Walsh and I never really saw eye to eye, but I suppose our disagreements made for entertaining radio. Deep down, I always knew Walsh had a soft side. That night, in the basement of the station, Walsh showed his true colors. He proudly exited the closet and came out to all of us while declaring his love for his secret lover, Douglas. If only he hadn’t died that night, I think we would have become fast friends.

Working in media, you’re trained to hold your composure. Don’t show fear or emotion, that’s the number one rule. It’s to easy to evoke mass panic if the audience hears fear in your voice or see’s it in your eyes.

It’s hard… It’s hard trying to encourage others and spread hope when you know people all around you are dying, if not already dead.

That night, the world grieved for the loss of thousands, but in that basement, we grieved for the loss of our co-workers—our family.

Until you’re in a situation like the Bamgila Invasion, which is what the history books are now calling it, you can’t possibly understand the pain and suffering that comes with such a loss. The decisions I made, hoping to keep myself and those I loved alive, and the relationships lost in those endless moments of fear will forever haunt me.


The day started like any other Tuesday, except instead of dropping Darby off at school on my way to work she came with me. She was suspended, three days for skipping class. I suppose I can’t blame her; kids tend to lash out when their feeling stress. Darby’s life had been turned upside down, not once but twice. The most recent being the summer before she started ninth grade when her father decided to leave, moving into a flat in the city with his twenty-three-year-old mistress, Bambi.

Bambi had been Darby’s nanny, up until she turned twelve, and had spent many family vacations and backyard BBQs with us over the eight years she worked for us. It turns out her benefits package was better than my own. She walked with a new condo, money in her pocket, and my husband at her side. I got the house, 75% custody of Darby, and no alimony because David lost his job a month before our divorce became finalized.

When I found out Gill was cheating on Susan, with Crystal one of the stations anchors, I lost it. I gave him an ultimatum, tell Susan before their next anniversary or I would. That gave him five and a half months to decide how to do it, but it didn’t take that long. About two months later, Susan had cornered him in the den, demanding to know the truth. In Gill ultimate wisdom, he confessed thinking he had no other choice. It turns out, Susan had no idea about the affair and only wanted to know how he could possibly spend $2500 on golf clubs without talking to her first. I’m only thankful that Susan didn’t have to live with that pain for too long.

The very next day, Bamgila came walking out of the bay. I won’t go into the gory details of how Susan died, I don’t want to relive those memories. Over twenty years later and her death is still just as painful today as it was then. In fact, I’m tearing up just thinking about her now. If you had known Susan; her passion for life, her extraordinary lust for excitement, and her never ending love of friends and family, you’d understand the gaping hole her death left in all of us.


Darby and I made it into the station about seven o’clock, in the middle of Sunny Storm’s morning weather report. She was a twenty-something, brunet with dreams of one day becoming an actress. The problem she ran into wasn’t a lack of talent, no, it was that no one was looking for fresh talent in L.A. That’s lower Alabama to those of you who haven’t lived in the south, not to be mistaken with Los Angeles, California.

Sunny’s personality was much like her name, sunny. She was eager to learn and although many of the men in the office saw her as a ditz, I knew better. She was a social media wizard. She had over ten thousand followers on Instagram and double that on Twitter. I’m not sure why they were so fascinated by pictures of what she ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner which she posted on a daily basis. However, I will admit I often found myself getting lost in her ramblings whenever she posted videos.

Gill was always the first one in and the last one to leave at the end of the day. He greeted Darby and I moments after we walked in. I could tell something was wrong, but with Gill you never know if it’s a stubbed toe or a plane crash, everything is over the top with him. Either way, I had my own drama going on, trying to deal with Darby and her recent acts of defiance. By the time I got Darby out of the lobby and settled into a quiet place to nap before hitting the books, Gill was half way into his story about how Susan had pulled the truth out of him. I wont lie, I was glad she finally knew. I hated lying to her.

By the time Gill was done ranting, I had barely finished my first cup of coffee. Kenny Kramer, the WCHZ office intern, came bumbling into the lobby in a very Cosmo Kramar way. If you’ve ever seen Seinfeld, the early 1990’s sitcom, then you know what I mean. The irony that his mother named him after Michael Richard’s character Kramer is not lost on anyone who meets him.

Kenny proceeded to bombarded Gill and I in the lobby, going on and on about something he found amazing and world altering. It wasn’t until Gill turned on the television and the image of Bamgila filled the screen that I realized Kenny had no idea how right he really was. Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t excited about Bamgila’s existence, not like Kenny was. No, I was terrified, much like the rest of the world.

In a matter of hours, less than twenty-four, Bamgila had appeared as if out of nowhere. He walked out of waters of Mobile Bay defying all laws of physics and whether maliciously or not, wreaked havoc across the state. Fire exploded from his mouth, vehicles and buildings were crushed under the weight of his mass, and lives… so many lives were sacrificed to his will. The whole city fell under his shadow. We were all at his mercy, but Bamgila showed no mercy.


Skip Starke was the sports anchor back then. No one really took him to seriously, though. He presented himself like a has been football player who thought he should have been more. To be truthful, the only reason I even remember his name was because he had professed his feelings for me only thirty minutes before Bamgila took his life. He didn’t go without a fight though.

Charging toward the fire breathing monster, Skip managed to put two bullets right between the monster’s eyes. It didn’t make a difference, they barely penetrated the skin, but that isn’t what mattered. What mattered was that he had done it, bravely and selflessly, in an effort to save us all.

The weather girl, Sunny Storm, or rather Ethel Eugenia Furbish as we learned that night, was never found after the attack. Members of the National guard were sifting through bodies for months, identifying those they could and contacting family members if any were still living. Sunny’s body never turned up. There have been reports, over the years, that she had run out of the building, heading west, and never looked back. Some even say she kept running until she reached the Pacific Ocean. Considering she only owned four-inch heels, I find it hard to believe she could have run that far. I’m sure she called an uber as soon as she was out of the state, but you never know. Secretly, I hope she did make it all the way to California. I hope she changed her name, again, and took up acting out on the golden coast.

Crystal and Gill ended up throwing a huge party a few months after the event. They called it a funeral, to honor Susan’s memory, but it was a party. The only thing Susan would have liked about the party was all the alcohol. Everyone was drinking in her honor and somehow it felt like she was there too. I couldn’t stomach it, I still missed her too much. Life just wasn’t the same without my friend. I ended up leaving thirty minutes in, just after Crystal announced she was pregnant… with twins. Somehow that didn’t stop her from taking shot after shot of Gill’s expensive tequila thought.

Kenny, the WCHZ intern, who Walsh had hired must to my chagrin ended up being my hero. When Darby and I attempted to get away from Bamgila, I lost hold of her hand. She slipped right out of my fingers. I searched through the rubble for what felt like days trying to find her. Then, after hours of interrogation by General Stone of the U.S. Army, Kenny brought her back to me. I will forever be grateful to him.  In the twenty years since the incident, Kenny has continued with WCHZ, moving his way up the ranks until just five years ago, I heard he had been promoted to General Manager in charge of all programing. He has turned into a fine man and has done the station, and all of us old-timers, proud.

The high school my daughter attended, like most of the city, was demolished. She ended up completing the year, and her next three, through a virtual academy out of Texas. She graduated with honors and moved back to Washington to attend university. She came down every few months to visit, but once she got married, I decided it was time to pack up and move back up north too. I let go of my wrap around porch and backyard pool, in exchange for living just down the street from my two beautiful grandchildren; Sydney and Ethan. I wouldn’t give that up for all the world.

Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! ©2019 Nina Soden

How long should my story be?


When I started my first novel I asked myself the question, ‘how long should my story be?’ The problem was, I was asking the wrong question and at the wrong time!

As a writer, don’t worry about the length of your story… at least not before you’ve even begun writing. Just write! Stare at the empty screen and start typing. Pound out your first draft and then ask the right question:

Is my story a short story, novelette, novella, novel, or epic?

Once your story is complete, then look at the word count in order to determine what “length” of a story you’ve written. The answer to this question is easy, because it is based on your final word count. Don’t let the desired word count dictate what you write, allow the story to dictate what you write. If you worry about word count, while you’re writing’ you may end up with way more words – and superfluous details – than necessary. 

Now, I’d love to say that there are clear-cut guidelines to how long each type of story should be, but there aren’t. I’ve done a lot of research and it seems the ‘word count’ guide changes depending on who you ask. However, I’ve put together what seems to be the most common ‘suggested’ word counts:

word count

Does this mean you have to adhere to this guideline? Nope, absolutely not! They are just a guide to get you started. Write what you want to write. Tell your story the way your characters are begging you to tell it. When you’re done, call it what you want, but get that story out there for the world to see. Then, pat yourself on the back and celebrate, because you’ll have accomplished something amazing! Something you should be proud of! After you’re done, comment below and tell me what your story is and how long it ended up being, so we can celebrate together.

Behind Locked Doors: A PRISONER of her flesh

moon door

As the wind carried a feather across a field, the music began to fill her heart. She knew not where it came from or who his heart played for, but her soul longed for more. As the sun set and the moon began to climb higher into the dark midnight sky she lay still waiting and longing… listening as the melody repeated, again and again and again.

More intense with every movement… Her heart began to pound, and her eyes began to fill with tears. For she could feel his love… she could feel his desires… She could feel his pain…

She wanted desperately to go to him… To comfort him… To hold him in her arms.

But… She was bound and tied… Forever to remain where her chains held her.

A prisoner of her flesh… A captive to her fears… All she could do was send her soul to be with his, to know that her heart would always live in his.

(c) Nina Soden 2014

Behind Locked Doors – Life After Death!

Photograph by William Tapaninen

Photograph by William Tapaninen

She woke up cold and unaware. Laying down she couldn’t tell where she was, and she was unable to move. She could feel straps across her legs, holding her arms down and across her chest. She wasn’t wearing any clothing and her skin felt numb yet wet.

The darkness surrounded her attacking her with voices and noises that couldn’t be identified. She couldn’t scream for the cloth shoved in her mouth so tightly every time she tried to speak she gagged. Tears poured down her face as she struggled to get free. Fear built within her until she could no longer breathe.

When she awoke again alone in the woods under the cover of leaves and grass, the draining process had been completed and the final stages of her transformation had begun. Her hunger was growing strong. But deep within she felt a sense of calm, strength and power. The fear was gone replaced with excitement for the new life ahead. Eager to learn she rushed into the woods around her. Within moments she was running, leaping, lunging. Feeding on a wild lion it was the most alive feeling she had ever had, and to think it was the first thing she had done since she died.

(c) Soden, Nina 2013