Willow's Bomb Shelter

My Special Place by Willow

My Special Place is a bomb shelter. People used to go there for safety during the 2^nd World War. It is in London in a pretty orchard in Shepherds Bush. The special thing about it is that when you approach it, it doesn't look like a bomb shelter because it is camouflaged in greenery. This is good because nobody bothers with it, so my friend and I get the whole load of fun all to ourselves.

An Anderson Shelter

 As I go towards an apple green lump of camouflaged moss and scrambled brambles and greenery, memories flood back. The dandelions stained the lump a canary colour. A friend and I ran towards the lump and walked round its humongous remains. Round the other side there were rusty bars. We couldn’t touch them because if we did then we would start to rust, ourselves. Inside it was a whole different story. It was like an ashen tortoise with small snakes slithering up the sides. The lump was officially an Anderson Bomb-Shelter.  We were explorers on a wild quest to find the golden box, but there was something stopping us: the dusty horizon was trickling with Native Americans, armed with bows and arrows. We used to play this game whenever we got back from school, (but the best day to play cowboys and Indians was bonfire night). Only because the fireworks were like our own gunfire and because only just having a narrow escape gave the whole scene a greater effect. The hypnotising wisps of fireworks sprayed the night in blooming bursts of colour. Once we reached the bomb shelter an unpleasant sight fed our eyes: the old thing was no longer cared for. Everything was smothered in dirt and grime. Countless woodlice stood motionless (slightly camouflaged against its grotesque surroundings).

Many shouts from my little friend flooded my ears, or was it the wailing fireworks streaming across the sky, causing great stripes to pop out of the sky. The bonfire cackled its evil laugh. We would dare each other to throw branches into its blazed flames. Once we did this we would soon regret it as a sudden cacophony of wood cracking then burning. More shouts from people I know.  Then a cascading sound of Catherine Wheels and blue firework fountains bombarded our eyes with discordant sounds. Some fireworks wailed and screeched and some went out with a tremendous bang. The fireworks were fizzing professionally, as they split the sky into a dazzling scene. We were still running away from the crafty Indians as their wailing screeches stained our ears, so that our terrified calls were drowned in a whirlpool of sounds.

I can remember the strong smell of smoke that was projecting out of the crackling bonfire. The strong aroma of the puffy marshmallows softly toasting in the flames, filled our nostrils with a delightful scent. Only fireworks with a strong smell were projected into the black satin sky. The mindboggling display that was viewed and witnessed was shortly followed by an even more mindboggling smell of burning. I was shortly wondering if it was possible for the sky catch fire, but luckily it didn’t.

I clutched the dead piece of wood in my hand. It was damp but my hand was determined to fling it into the bonfire. I can fell the warmth that was lingering around it. I felt the wood slowly leave my fingers as it was in my hand one minute and the next minute it was roasting in the hungry flames of the luminous beast. Its flames were curling evilly, luring its prey into the depths of its cruel, burning heart. The warmth increased as more branches were flung onto it’s out-of-bounds remains. Gooey marshmallows were showing off its pleasurable delights to the rest of my mouth. If the marshmallows were to be sandwiched in-between two chocolate digestive biscuits (like they did) then all my senses would be focused on one as I tasted real heaven. That’s most of my memories of the orchard and the Anderson bomb shelter.