Orphan Black series 2 UK broadcast dates!

*delighted bat noises*

Orphan Black SERIES 2 starts on BBC3 in the UK at 22:00 on Wednesday 30th April!

Series 1 is currently being repeated at stupid o’clock on BBC3, but it means that all the episodes are going up on BBC iPlayer.

Episodes 1 and 2 will be available until Monday 28th April

Episodes 3 and 4 will be available until Tuesday 29th April

Episodes 5 and 6 will be available until Wednesday 30th April

Episodes 7 and 8 are being shown on Thursday 24th April 02:35-04:00 and episodes 9 and 10 on Friday 25th April 01:30-03:00, and will be available for 7 days after that.

Hope this helps!

(Image credit: BBC america).

Flash Fiction: Weal or Woe

Written for the terribleminds.com flash fiction challenge 'Pick an Opening Line and Go'. Opening line courtesy of Sam Phillips.

So dere I waz, sandwiched between a facking giant blonde monsta wiv showl’das da size ov an ouz an uh crayta fays kid wiv a serioz bref mint need. Which woz actually pretty good fer a Saturday night down da Brockley Jack pub. I woz jus plannin to get me round in den slink off back home fer a little alone time, if ya know wham sayin. No trouble, honest. And it woz all goin well, even gorra smile from da Mona Lisa behin da bar fer my joke about da ducks.

  Then crayta fays fixd me wiv da full force of hiz ‘alitoziz and sed “Oi! Int you one ov ‘Arry’s ladz?

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Flash Fiction: The Republic

Written for the terribleminds.com flash fiction challenge ‘Life is Hell.’

  I hate John Milton. By all accounts he was a dirty blasphemer and we should have got him when the gout finally carried him off, but I think some strings were pulled upstairs. Though considering the length of Paradise Lost, I imagine he’s still cooling his heels in some level of purgatory as we speak. A damned shame, as I have a sharp implement or two it would have been my very great pleasure to acquaint him with.

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Flash Fiction: Hamm

Written for the terribleminds.com flash fiction challenge ‘Five Random Words.’

(content warning: infant death)

The cloudless October sky gave no promise of rain to muffle the stink of the scrapyard. Old oil fought for dominance over rotting food waste and burning rubber in Hamm’s nostrils, and as he rummaged among the new intake each gesture sent a new smell rising like a maleficent djinn from the heap.

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The Most Beautiful Trees In The World

  1. Portland Japanese Garden, Portland, Oregon. Photo: Unknown
  2. Red maples trees path. Photo: Ildiko Neer
  3. Most beautiful wisteria tree in the world. Photo: Brian Young
  4. Yellow autumn in Central Park, New York. Photo: Christopher Schoenbohm
  5. Amazing Angel Oak Tree, Charlston, Photo by Mark Requidan.
  6. Cherry blossom tree path, Germany. Photo: Shoeven
  7. California in autumn. Photo: Mizzy Pacheco
  8. Jacaranda trees in bloom, South Africa. Photo: Falke
  9. Ponthus beech tree in Brocéliande forest, France. Photo: Christophe Kiciak
  10. Beautiful cherry blossom road. Photo: Unknown

(Source: onebigphoto.com, via flomation)

Flash fiction: A Promised Land

Written for the terribleminds.com flash fiction challenge 'Ten Little Chapters.'


  Have you ever thought how it would feel to stand just to the left of greatness? Well, that’s where I stand. The view from behind the console affords me a unique perspective. Now, for example, I see the captain’s hand shake just slightly as he issues the commands which steer us through the asteroid field. So, greatness is nervous. Greatness has doubts. Greatness is as tired as anyone else in this battered vessel, and those who stand just to the left of greatness are in on the secret. I am in on the secret.


  I am in my bunk reviewing the scripture when I am summoned to the bridge. There is a problem, and the relief technician who works while I sleep is not qualified to attend. I sigh and place the book aside gently. The words of Karlow should not be handled roughly. I perform the sign and put my boots on. Greatness is waiting.

  “Captain?” I say as I enter the command room. The relief technician stands nervously at attention, his antennae twitching as he tries to remember if he should salute me. A newly promoted civilian. My lip curls.


  We are all on our knees before the radar screen. It flickers and buzzes, the resources needed to keep it in good repair long ago expended in the exodus. Nevertheless, it reveals unmistakeably a facsimile of the promised land. I am prostrate before Karlow’s great gift. He has rewarded our piety; after twenty years we are home. The captain rises to his feet. I touch my forehead once more to the floor and murmur the eighth oration.


  I must confess that I am nervous as we explore the promised land. We have been wrong before. I remember the rock in the fifth quadrant, the lieutenant’s antennae withering as the breath was sucked from his lungs by an atmosphere putrid and toxic. A great loss to those who remained, we thought.  However, when I was assigned to sort through his effects I found a number of obscene visigraphs depicting sexual acts the nature of which I will not repeat. A reminder that Karlow sees all and acts accordingly.


  Greatness calls. Before I can reach the bridge I become aware of the nature of the emergency; stretcher bearers dash through the corridors, carrying writhing figures. Apparently liquid falls from the sky here, and it is toxic to our flesh. When I reach the command room the captain looks grave, and from the angle I have entered at I can see that he is leaning- one might even say heavily- against the console.


  We have now learned to recognize the signs of incoming precipitation. The blood of those not fast enough lies green to match the vegetation covering the plains. I feel these rains are a punishment, that we have brought the unrighteous to the promised land. I urge the priest to seek them out and force them outside when the skies open. He nods but does not meet my eye. I notice his scripture book is foxed at the edges. My claws protract suddenly.


  Karlow is testing us further- the balmy temperatures that greeted us have now dropped and left us shivering. The old and very young are dying. We harbour sinners in our midst, and Karlow’s displeasure grows. I have tried to intimate this to the captain, but curiously he always seems to be called away whenever we have a meeting scheduled. The priest is also hard to find, even though I have evidence of wrongdoing- I witnessed the Quartermaster’s spouse copulating with a town planner in the grain silo.


  This has been puzzling me: there are intelligent fauna on this planet. Airborne creatures which can improvise tools from twigs and small quadruped mammals which are everywhere and are able to get into even our most tightly sealed grain silos. And yet there are no populations with language, no species which has learned to build. It is as if the planet was waiting for us, the righteous, to occupy that most elevated niche. There has been no further precipitation since the town planner was found with his throat cut in the quartermaster’s stores. I could not get the blood out from beneath my claws so I had to cut them.


  The captain is saying we must dig downwards, for the young and the very old will only survive the cold under the warm crust of the planet’s surface. Doesn’t he know that Karlow only claims the unrighteous? That anyone lost in the freeze was undone by their own foul thoughts? I was hoping to stave off the cold by assisting Karlow in his work to dispatch the deserving, but it seems I have not been observant enough, the temperature falls day by day.


  They have imprisoned me! I rattle the bars of my cage. The digging machine plunges into the earth and I scream as if it were being driven into my own breast. This is not the way! The frosts are upon us, Karlow obviously does not approve of this action! My antennae clack together. The machine rumbles and sinks, then hits… something. I am startled enough to stop shouting. I cannot see what is happening, but there is a lot of noise and then something terrible is pulled from the hole made by the machine. It is small and pink, it has eyes but no antennae, and its limbs are short and soft. It looks around at us, then opens its jaws and begins to make a noise. This planet is riddled with demons, eating at its core like those pests in the grain silos. We were fools to ignore Karlow’s commands, his burning rain, his icy seasons. We did not repent, and he has sent the swarm to destroy the promised land. I recite all fifty orations and ten apocrypha. My claws have grown back now. I raise my hand to my throat.

Flash Fiction: At the Foot of the Tower

The linguist banged her empty tin cup against the dirt floor. The shining metal behemoth loomed behind her. She did her best to ignore it.

  “Sir, please!” she implored the well-dressed man walking by in fluent Arabic, “some alms for a poor beggar?” The man’s head twitched, but he didn’t look down.

  The linguist stretched out her arms.

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II know that HRC are a problematic organisation but still this is AWESOME

Tags: ellen page

Take a Deep Breath: Why Cosima Isn’t Going to Die


Hey Orphan Black fandom! So, over the past few days (when I officially joined this site thanks to the tatianapocalypse) I’ve been seeing a lot of people freaking out over some insinuations that Cosima might die in season 2. And I am here to tell you that you can relax a little.


I know you’re nervous. It’s okay.

*pulls up cozy couch in front of warm fire and offers you your choice of Jell-O or Eskimo Pies*

Let’s chat.

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This is excellent. However, I have a possible counterpoint to the idea that coughing up blood may be on the cards for all clones at some point, and therefore is less likely to be fatal to Cosima as everyone being dead wouldn’t be fun. I always felt that the writers were trying to push a link between Beth’s depression and Alison’s paranoia (and possibly also Helena’s problems, although the extreme nature of her upbringing makes her more of an outlier). I think at some point Cosima even off-handedly says mental health issues can have genetic components in response to a flippant comment of Sarah’s regarding Helena’s sanity. With this in mind, another possible interpretation is that there are several glitches that clones are disproportionately susceptible to, with respiratory and mental health problems being the two thus far revealed. If this is true and blood coughing only affects some clones, it may pose more of a threat to Cosima than the original post surmises.