UPDATE: The contest has been extended til August 31!

It's summer, kids, so it's that time again. Time for a historical fiction contest.

This year it is going to be a lot more open than it previously has been. The theme is Strange Lands. The goal is easy: write a short story, flash fiction, or poem of historical fiction. Anything. Any time, any prompt, any characters. Except.

The story cannot take place in the country you live in, or any country you have ever lived in.

The point is to explore a new place you don't know as much about yet. And yes you're more or less on your honor not to cheat

So, here we go, RULES:
Must be between 500-4k words for prose. No line limit for poetry, but I swear to heaven if you write me the Illiad I won't like it.
Must be original work. I don't want fan fiction.
You may write an original character or an original event BUT...
Must be actual history, not AU history (not this time anyway, sorry).
Must be set in a place you have never lived in, though any time period or type of character is fine.
No hatemongering. You can write about something tough, gritty, or downright horrible. But no propoganda about why that's ok.

Questions? Leave 'em here.

DUE DATE: August 31, 2016, 11:59pm PST

And now the part you're interested in: PRIZES

First Place
3mo Core Membership from TheBrassGlass
1 story or character sketch of your choosing from TheBrassGlass
500pts from neurotype-on-discord
100pts from doughboycafe
Critiques from doughboycafe, BATTLEFAIRIES, Geistlicher, Braxton-T-Rutledge, brennennn, TheMaidenInBlack
Features from doughboycafe, TheBrassGlass, HistFic, HugQueen, MagicalJoey, Mouselemur, TandemFeatures, brennennn, TheMaidenInBlack

Runner Up
3mo Core Membership from TheBrassGlass
200pts from LadyLincoln
100pts from doughboycafe
Critiques from doughboycafe, BATTLEFAIRIES, Geistlicher, Braxton-T-Rutledge, brennennn, TheMaidenInBlack
Features from doughboycafe, TheBrassGlass, HistFic, HugQueen, MagicalJoey, Mouselemur, TandemFeatures, brennennn, TheMaidenInBlack

Everyone who participates will get a journal feature from me, and from the group .

We are still looking for prizes! If you want to donate something to the cause, even if you are also entering the contest, note me or leave a comment here.

Have fun and happy history hunting!

Entries so far:
Boiled Frogs (Historical Fiction Poem)Boiled Frogs
13-8-16
With wimple snatched from bared head
I bend before my fetid fate;
Hands tied in more ways than one.
Flint flickers with a speckle of sparks,
Kissing bare branches with baby flames;
They catch their own tails
As they climb to lick at my feet.
The heat reminds me of baking bread,
And briefly I wonder if I will bubble like pancakes
Or merely burn like bacon too long in the skillet.
Tears steam from my face like warm breath on a winter’s day,
And the dirty tracks they leave behind only serve as a reminder:
I am human;
Born a babe in the woods,
Dead at twenty in the square.
I raise my face, defiant to the last;
I am not owned by any man
And will bow to none;
Least of all a priest and flock,
Who are so single-minded they wouldn’t know a witch
If she turned them into a frog.

Mature Content

Big and Little SinsFather, have I sinned? Karol wondered, for at least the hundredth time tonight. If it was a sin to listen at the kral's door, was it compounding the sin to speak those secrets? Surely not. Not if it saved a life. I will confess it tomorrow. 
The boy ran as fast as he could through the halls ending in a breathless mess outside Svatopluk's rooms. One knock on the door. Two. A dishevelled woman answered, impatience in her sharp tone. "What is it?" 
"I need to speak with with Svatopluk. Please." Karol leaned against the frame, putting his foot in the jamb in case she tried to close it.
"He's sleeping." She tried to shut the door and pushed only harder when it got stuck on the boy's shoe.
"It's important," Karol insisted. "Please. You have to listen!" He tried not to raise his voice, but up it went anyhow, cracking at the end. 
The woman opened the door and glared at him. "Speak to him tomorrow at the feast. That is soon enough."
"It won't be. At the feast I'll Drumossie MuirI stood alone on the mountain.
The mist drifted along majestically.
All the beauty affected me,
Dazed profoundly my mind.
A loch was situated at my feet.
I felt mysticism, spirit and energy.
My heart was torn by inner hand.
Never would I forget this beautiful country.
When I closed my eyes,
I was back on the field where I once died.
My feet sank knee-deep in mud and blood.
Everywhere, dead comrades lined my path.
We fought for independence and freedom.
We spat death into the face and laughed
And were not afraid of what was coming.
Even when we were killed, we became immortal.
Our names will be on everyone’s lips.
Forever.
We, the fighters of Culloden.

Mature Content

  Gassed out.The war was won, and it was now time to liberate the concentration camps; liberate all the people who were considered “undesirable” by the Nazis. It has been years, but I still remember every detail of that spine chilling scene I witnessed when I went to liberate the first camp, a death camp located at Maidanek.
It was July 1944, when the Soviet troop, of which I was a part, was sent for the liberation. On the outside, it looked a lot like normal land, with barbed-wire, keeping others out. But who could say that inside of it resided Hell for all those Jews who were killed. We entered that land; from where departed many innocent souls; through the strong iron gates. Even those rusted gates gave away a devilish vibe. The wire carried electricity which would not let the “prisoners” escape from those gruesome camps. On reaching those wires, dead bodies were found; entangled, trying to escape. I made a mental note to remove those bodies first, right after the inspect Wolbachiawhen it begins
Diao Chan knew of three ways to break a man's arm and had practiced them all several times in the short course of her life, for the most beautiful woman in China was often also the most harassed. That she knew how to defend herself made the situation twice as intolerable.
Broad nails bit into her shoulder as the usurper pressed her to his side, a crude display to the court and his silent, watchful son. Lord Dong Zhuo’s limbs were thicker than most, but she could still punish him. She thought of how satisfying it would be to snap his bones, sink her nails into his eyes and rip through his skull. But purpose was a bitter mistress and she stayed quiet.
________________________________________
before everything
Diao Chan was an orphan, a runaway, and a thief.
She lived on the outskirts of Luoyang, right where the boulevards of the Heavenly City bled into endless rice paddies fed by the threads of fresh, clean water from the Luo. Nobody knew who her family