“In the centre of the square, under the American flag, a loose halyard slapped the pole, out of rhythm with the swirling wind. The gritty snow, sharp as sand, had taken up residence in the air and sucked the colour from the scene. To Shire, the surrounding brown barrack huts, a tied bay mare, the blue uniforms, were all shaded towards grey. If ever the snow met the ground, it was soon collected into short-lived eddies and whipped back up to prickle his hands and face. He half closed his eyes against the sting, tried not to lick his cracked lips; it only made them colder. It still felt strange to be marching beneath that flag.”

Extract from ‘Whirligig’ – included in the showcase