I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the THE QUELLING by C.L. Lauder Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: C.L. Lauder
Pub. Date: January 16, 2024
Publisher: River Grove Books
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 362
Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THEQUELLING
When you’re Stained, patches of skin
glisten like liquid starlight, and sooner or later, his creatures find you.
When Kyjta accidentally brands
herself with an alien fluid while plotting revenge, she knows her fate is
sealed. As one of the Stained, her markings glisten star-bright, and the
creatures sent by the Rhemans to scavenge for bodies will have no trouble finding
her.
One night, while sheltering during a
raid, Kyjta forms an unexpected pact with a Rheman rebel to protect a young
girl, Calipsie, who’s fallen into her care. Days later, when Calipsie is taken,
Kyjta abandons precaution to go after her. Facing impossible odds and allied by
a Rheman she’s not sure she can trust, Kyjta must not only rescue Calipsie, but
also face the Rheman overlord who’s taken a disturbing interest in her.
Trailer:
1
KYJTA
It’s cold down here. Cold
and miserable, and I wish I hadn’t come.
But wishes are like curses,
as my mother used to say. I should have
asked her what she meant. I thought we’d have time. I was wrong. There’s
a girl nearby. She’s not the only one; about a hundred of us are crammed into this dank, subterranean
space, but she’s the one who has my
attention. She’s small and thin. Silently crying. I could probably touch her
shoulder if I stretched out my hand. By now, Helacth’s ghoragalls must be circling. Hideous,
winged creatures with shards of bone
protruding from their moulting black feathers, and long limbs perfect for snatching up anyone left
wandering around in the dark. I’m sure
she’s scared. She has no family. None that I can see, anyway. I could put an arm around her and warm her
scrawny arms. I could rub the chill out
of her bare legs. She isn’t dressed for the cold stone floor. I lean my head
against the wall and do my best to ignore the painful jut of an old man’s hip
bone in my side. How long until morning?
It’s impossible to tell. Some people are sleeping, gently snoring.
The young girl must be tired but has
nowhere to put her head. I could offer
her my leg, but it’s not my way.
The walls are hypnotic, not
your typical cellar walls. They’ve been
strung with zionate; the ceiling too. The delicate threads overlay
each other in a crazed, haphazard
pattern that shimmers in the lamplight.
The protective canopy makes us invisible to Helacth’s ghoragalls. Not us, exactly, but our Stains: glimmering
silver-gold markings that brand the lot
of us. The Rheman overlord’s ghoragalls may be merciless abductors who attack
us in the dark, but at least they’re blind. It’s when you’re stained that they can find you.
Day or night, inside or outside, they
know where to look. Except where zionate is at work. Something about the shimmering strands
disturbs their sense of our Stains, and
we go unnoticed while it shields us.
The young girl is from the
north. Skin the colour of polished dark wood, hair bright as the setting sun.
She wears it in a braid that crowns her
head. How old is she? Eight or nine alignments? Maybe. Too young to be on her own. Too young to be here.
She turns and catches me looking.
Sniffing, she lowers her long copper lashes and wipes at her eyes. I lost my mother young, so maybe I
don’t have a caregiver’s nature. There
are other women here, though, older than me and experienced, women with
children of their own. Why don’t they comfort
her? Isn’t that what mothers do?
The floor is hard and icy
cold. I shift uncomfortably, nudging my
boot past the town carpenter’s ample bottom. She treats me to a pointed look, and I smile, but my eyes send a
different message. She looks away. It’s not that I scare her. I’m just a girl,
nineteen alignments and a rawhide sack of bones. But she won’t want to
offend me. I might be wearing a field
hand’s clothes, but she knows me as
something more than a farm girl. I am my father’s daughter, and she has no alternative but to hide her scorn if
she values his deliveries.
I wish I hadn’t come.
Wishes are like curses.
Wishes are like curses.
I should have asked my
mother for the meaning. Not knowing
bothers me, and the words stick in my head.
If only I hadn’t been at the
market when the warning bells chimed.
These people scare me about as much as the wraith-like ghoragalls whose
pouches are full of Stain. I remember the day many here got their mark. There was a stampede to get away.
The ghoragalls flew low on skeletal
wings that spanned the sky. The sun was bright, and then it wasn’t. The shadow raced across the
baked earth, sweeping people up like
scattered dust. I fell, and the rest kept running. Some ran over me, digging heavy heels into the
backs of my hands, spraining my fingers, tripping over my legs; but they didn’t
stop.
They didn’t stop for me, and
they’re not going to comfort the girl. She’s not crying any more. She has
hiccoughs. The irregular spasms look
painful, contorting her tiny frame. They say a good scare will chase them away, but she’s had one of
those already. ‘Hey. Girl.’
She turns her violet eyes on
me, shimmering and luminous. ‘You play Top It?’ I pull a set of shells out of
my pocket and splay them across my palm.
She nods, her expression
serious.
‘Come over here. I’m bored
as a monolith.’
She crawls over on hands and
knees, not minding who she bumps along
her way. When she reaches me, she squats. Her feet are bare. They must be freezing. Her expression is a
little hilarious. She’s wide eyed and solemn enough to lead a death march.
I distribute the shells. The
young girl picks each up in turn and
examines it. I let her go first, but I don’t let her win. That would be
a false lesson. She’s good, though. Smart.
She’s definitely played before. ‘Who taught you?’ I ask.
‘My brother.’
So there is someone to look
after her, at least.
‘Your Stain looks like a
fez; anyone told you that?’ Someone must
have. The silver-gold marking at the back of her neck is a perfect
silhouette of the tiny blue birds that swarm over the meadows. ‘Yours is like—’
she stalls, suddenly shy.
‘Like I’m crying. I know.
Unfair, isn’t it?’ I chuckle softly so she
knows I’m not offended.
‘I’m Kyjta,’ I tell her.
‘Calipsie,’ she says.
We play five rounds. She
wins one when I topple the stack, and I
take the other four. Now that I have all my shells, I slip them
into my pocket.
‘If you’re tired, you should
try to sleep.’
I straighten my legs and
flatten my shawl over the stone floor. It’s
a makeshift bed that will offer little protection from the chill,
but it’s better than raw skin against
frozen masonry. I tap my thigh where
Calipsie can rest her head. She looks uncertain but then crawls
forward and snuggles up like a forest
animal on a nest of reeds.
I return to resting my head
against the wall at my back, giving the
radiant zionate mesh covering the opposite wall my attention. Don’t ask me how the House of Judgement figured out
that zionate blocks whatever attracts
the ghoragalls to our Stains. Sion Ignoti worked the Parched Lands and probably tweezed all this
from the wings of giant satermijtes,
cart-sized desert insects that scavenge the dunes, preparing for his retirement. It used to be the stuff
was only good for brooches and trinkets.
He couldn’t have known it would be our first defence against the ghoragalls. Not that the beasts
are the enemy. They only serve their
master, Helacth, the Rheman overlord, and the reason I’m cowering in a basement with a small stranger
curled up in my lap.
My world, Aurora Saura, used
to be home to only two sentient species. My people, the Aurora Saurins,
populated the habitable climes of Fareen
and Sojour, while the Tarrohar kept to the equatorial Parched Lands. Only the
most intrepid explorers ever made it past the Tarrohar into the Ice Realm of
Thormyth, south of Sojour. Everything changed the day the Rhemans landed their
ships. There were six in total, and they
scattered them across the three continents. Three ships in Sojour, two in
Fareen, and the last in Thormyth which
Helacth occupies.
The Rhemans are not people;
they are creatures. Just like the
Tarrohar are not people. Both species are parasites. They use my people
to fully experience the world. Their methods may differ, but the outcome is the same. My people suffer under
their control.
With the Tarrohar, at least,
there can be no deception: the monster
is as plain as the victim it rides. Rheman control is more nefarious—
they’re invisible, hidden inside your body, controlling you. They could be anyone. They could hide inside your
own mother—you wouldn’t know. I favour
the monster I can see, but that doesn’t make
the Tarrohar any less repulsive. It’s not that I’d opt for having
an eight-legged sack of organs suckered
onto my back over being quelled by a
Rheman. The sight of a Tarrohar turns my stomach, all squishy tentacles and shiny translucence—like a
pudding that’s sat too long in the heat.
It’s just that, with the Rhemans, you can’t see it coming. A Rheman travels from person to person with
no visible sign. You won’t know they’re
there until your consciousness is pushed aside.
Probably not even then. We call it being quelled. The Quelled are my people, Aurora Saurins just like me, but
under Rheman control.
I close my eyes and try to
listen for the sea. I can almost feel the
sun on my back, if I sit very still. The cold walls burn. I wish I
could just get up and leave. Not just this
place, but this place: Merrocha, my
hometown in Sojour, and everything it represents. Past. Memory. Pain. I want to
go somewhere new. Somewhere the ghoragalls can’t follow me.
The Rhemans landed in 4036,
the same alignment I was born. Some
might call that an omen, but I call it palm’s luck. The Hands, our guiding deity, dole it out, and I’ve had
more than my fair share. I’ve never
lived a life out from under Helacth, and I’ve stopped wondering if I ever will. The Rhemans came
here looking for bodies because they didn’t have enough of their own. Now that
I’m marked, my body is theirs for the
taking. With my Stain, I’ll be taken.
One day—probably soon—a ghoragall will swoop down from the sky and carry me to the Ice Realm,
where I’ll behold their mother ship and
forfeit my mortal shell. It’s a fate I accept.
Wishes are like curses, and
I did this to myself.
A shift in the light catches
my eye. Movement at the top of the
stairs. Calipsie stiffens. I thought she was sleeping, but the girl
is smart. A young man and an old woman
descend the stairs. I know the man. More
of a boy. A farmhand called Merrick, who used to do part-time work on the farm. I lower my
head and let my shaggy curtain of hair
hide my face. All I need now is another reminder of my mistakes.
Peering through my mess of
blondish hair, I watch Merrick lead the
old woman down the stairs, making sure she doesn’t trip. The woman’s skin is milky white and sparkles like
starlight. It isn’t right how Merrick
holds her by the hand while supporting her at the elbow. Merrick is a labourer and not a bit
gentlemanly. He’s built like a farmyard
elvakan, and she like one of the fez that flutters over the meadow. It’s like watching two different
species caring for each other.
It’s all wrong.
I lean into Calipsie, my
field hand’s cover-ups scrunching in the
eerie silence.
‘Sit up,’ I say quietly.
She twists in my lap, her
enormous spectral eyes fearful. She rises
and quickly shuffles forward.
Merrick and the old woman
reach the bottom of the stairs. He’s
only a few alignments older than me, but you’d think him older to look at him. His face is all hard
angles—parts pleasing, others brutish and sun scuffed. He’s fit, though,
beneath his farmer’s shirt. It’s a
terrible cut, but I can see the triangular jut of his muscled torso through the ill-fitting material.
Merrick leads the woman to a
wobbly stool, which Sion Viandti vacates
for her. Viandti owns a textile shop, and that gives him title of Sion. In Sojour, any man past his middle
alignment and without title is belittled
in private and snubbed in public. There’s a thriving market for the smallest sliver of earth. No
one wants to be branded with the
opposing prefix of Hok, meaning a man without standing.
The shopkeeper doesn’t look
pleased to see Merrick. Once the woman
is seated, he pulls him aside.
‘It’s past curfew. What are
you doing here?’ I can’t really hear
Sion Viandti from my position at the back of the room, but I think that’s what he says. Merrick is facing away from
me, so I don’t get his response.
‘The rules are there for a
reason,’ Sion Viandti continues. ‘It’s a
disgrace,’ the shopkeeper says, eyes darting toward the older woman with the starlight skin. ‘What use would they
have for her?’
I stare harder. Merrick
doesn’t seem himself. I’ve watched him take
a scolding before, and he always stuffs his hands in his pockets
and studies the floor. Not so today.
He’s engaging with Sion Viandti, trying
to explain something to the old man. He might even be succeeding.
I settle back against the
wall and motion for Calipsie to get comfortable. I don’t want to think about
Merrick. The fact he’s here is bad enough. The last time he got a scolding in
front of me was when he lost his job. My
stepfather was angry. He caught Merrick lurking
around the farmhouse, peering in at the windows. Sion Cromenk, my stepfather, hadn’t an inkling of what I’d
done to make Merrick follow me around.
If I was ever found out, my days of moonlighting as the potion master’s delivery agent would
be over.
Boots stomp on the
floorboards above. The focus of the room
shifts. A heavy clunk resounds as the wooden trapdoor to the basement
impacts the floor above. Light streams down the stairwell. Calipsie goes rigid, her eyes wide. Then,
like a plague of insects funnelling through a breach in a wall, the Quelled
rush in. I lose count of their number
because, screaming, everyone around us surges to their feet. Their momentum lifts me as I try
to hang on to Calipsie. Most rush for
the stairs, thinking they can make it past the Quelled. I stand firm, battling the tide, too scared
to attempt an escape. Outside, the
ghoragalls are surely circling. The thought of those waxy talons sliding under my arms sickens me, and
I don’t trust my legs.
The Quelled seem so much
less terrifying. Some are even familiar.
I see a boy I spent a summer with when we were small. Though he’s quelled, and not the kid I recall—a Rheman is
controlling him— his face is still that of my old friend. The boy—the
Rheman—leaps the balustrade and lands
with astonishing balance, scattering the
crowd. The Rheman clamps its arms around the meaty torso of Sion Turbotol, who’s twice the boy’s size and
wrought from hard-earned muscle. In no
time, the Rheman has the larger man tucked under one arm and wrangles him up the stairs. I’ve
heard stories about Rhemans bringing
superior strength to the Quelled—the bodies they occupy—but I never believed them. I guess I
should have. I do now.
When Calipsie wraps her arms
around me, I realise how badly I’m
shaking. She doesn’t notice. Her eyes find mine, and her upward gaze is
expectant. She trusts me to find a solution. That’s what adults do. Find solutions to impossible problems.
But I’m no adult. Still, I search the
room. There must be some way out. Calipsie has faith in me, and that faith creates an obligation.
If it weren’t for the tug of her slender
arms around my middle, I might take my chances on the stairs.
On both sides, people pummel
us, trying to get away from the closest
Quelled. This one is tall with greying hair—probably some kid’s grandfather. It wears a floor-length,
maroon frap, typical of merchants from Oblix. I pull Calipsie low to keep her
out of its sights, and when I look back,
it’s bundling two of the Stained toward the
stairs. They’re screaming for help, kicking and biting it, but
resisting is pointless. The Quelled
don’t feel pain. Being unconscious, they’ve
no means to experience it. The Rheman is running things, and pain doesn’t translate to them.
Someone has given us away.
We might be safe from the ghora galls down here, but we’re never safe from the
Quelled. Five more rush down the stairs
and the cellar’s occupants fall back, crushing
Calipsie and me into the cold webbing of zionate strands crisscrossing
the walls.
Whether guided by the Hands
or pure desperation, my eyes hunt for
Merrick. He stands out from the crowd, not because he’s Merrick and we share an uncomfortable history, but
because he’s successfully fighting back.
His right arm is locked around the neck of one of the Quelled, and he uses the other to free one of
the Stained.
I grab Calipsie her by the
arm and use the crowd’s momentum to work
my way forward. It’s not easy, we’re constantly shoved off course, but the throng is thinning. Some were
taken; others have escaped, or if
they’re unlucky, they’ve been lifted away by one of the ghoragalls as they fled the shelter. By the
time Calipsie and I reach Merrick, he’s managed to free the man and is
searching the room for his next
challenge. I step up and meet his gaze.
Merrick squints at me, his
expression a little wild. Then, his attention shrinks down, and he sees me.
But he doesn’t recognise me.
‘Need something?’ Amid the
chaos, it looks genuinely curious. It . . . Because whatever I’m talking to, it
isn’t Merrick. I’m still clinging to Calipsie’s arm, but I’ve tucked her
behind
me. The creature glances
down, sees her, and waves its hand in the
air, tilting it quickly back and forth in an Aurora Saurin gesture
that means ‘Are you okay?’
I look down and find her
waving back at it. With a grunt of
admonishment, I push her firmly behind my back. She should let me establish this Rheman’s motives before we
join hands and prance our way across the
Parched Lands.
‘You’re Rheman,’ I say.
The creature looks briefly
apologetic, then launches at us. I’ve
made a mistake. A staggering force pushes us backwards, Calipsie wailing
as we collide with Sion Uberick. The alchemy master col lapses into a chair, taking
our weight. Winded and reeling, I suck
down air, scanning the room for an escape route.
One of the Quelled leaps off
the balustrade and lands precisely where Calipsie and I were a moment ago. It
lunges for us, but Rheman Merrick grabs
it by the arm and jerks it backwards.
The Rheman controlling Merrick is trying to protect us, I realise,
launching to my feet. Rhemen Merrick and our attacker circle each other, and the people fall back, clearing the
area. I grab a chair, my knuckles white
around two legs of the makeshift shield. The attacking Rheman is
broad-shouldered and wears a teal tunic edged in silver. It swings like a fighter, but Rheman
Merrick ducks and then brings a knee into Teal Tunic’s side. The attacker
retaliates by grasping Rheman Merrick in a brutal chokehold. Without thinking,
I raise the chair and slam it down on
Teal Tunic’s back. Teal Tunic doesn’t
even flinch. It pauses to scowl at me though, and Rheman Merrick strikes back, head-butting it on the
chin.
‘Get the child to safety!
The latrine. Go!’ Rheman Merrick demands. I was so focused on getting up and
out that I never thought of going down.
Teal Tunic rises behind
Rheman Merrick.
I shout a warning, then grab
Calipsie by the arm. If we can get to
the latrine, we can take to the tunnels that serve as the town’s
waste works. I fight the crowd’s
momentum, forcing my way to the back of
the room, but progress is slow. When we’re partway there, I look back. Rheman Merrick has gotten the better of
the attacker and is sweeping the crowd,
looking for us. Our eyes connect, and I wave
it toward us just as the mass swallows Calipsie and me. Through the crush of bodies, I catch another glimpse of
it, unnervingly steady on its feet,
immune to the pummelling tide of people it leaves in its wake.
Passing all the desperate
faces makes me uneasy. I should tell them
how we plan to escape, but I can’t risk it. If they panic, the crush
of bodies might kill more than the Rhemans
can carry away. Calipsie’s behind me and
barely able to keep on her feet with all the shoving. If everyone were headed for the latrines,
she’d never make it. I pull her closer,
urging her to keep up. We struggle against the crowd until Rheman Merrick pushes in front of us,
clearing our path ahead.
Calipsie tugs my arm, and I
turn back to check on her. She’s fighting our progression, looking back the way
we came.
‘What is it?’ I shout.
‘My brother,’ she says.
‘He’s outside, waiting for me.’
I scan the stairs. They’re
swarming with the Quelled now. The
Rhemans are empty-handed on their way down, but they carry armfuls of
Stained going back up the stairs.
‘Is he stained?’ I yell to
be heard over the screaming chaos. ‘No,’ she says. Her eyes are wet, but she’s
holding herself together. ‘Then he’ll be fine,’ I lie. If he isn’t stained, the
ghoragalls are unlikely
to carry him away, but I
can’t say the same for the Rhemans. I tug on
her arm to get her moving and point to a small door. ‘Over here.’ We
travel down a short flight of narrow steps. When we reach the landing, there’s another door on the
right. Behind it, we find the latrine.
We struggle to close the door with the three of us inside. The room is gloomy, lit by a pitiful basking
lamp that sheds no more light than a
candle. The smell is fetid, but I expected that. Rheman Merrick wastes no time, pushing between
us and gripping the wooden seat. It
comes away with a splintering crunch. Rheman
Merrick sets it against the wall and turns.
‘Who’s first?’ it asks.
We can’t drop Calipsie into
the dark, foul-smelling hole; I don’t
know what’s down there. I clamber onto what’s left of the seat. One of my feet rests on a crumbling wall of rocks,
while the other bal ances on a section of distressed wood.
I hold my hands out to it.
‘A little help?’
The Rheman hesitates.
Like every kid in my
generation, I’ve been taught never to touch a Rheman. When they make
skin-to-skin contact, their essence,
being—whatever it is—can transfer across to you. When that hap pens, you
lose control. Your body becomes their body. If you’re lucky, they’ll transfer away again, and you’ll get
your body back, but you won’t remember
any of what was done while you were quelled. ‘Are you helping us or not?’ I
demand.
Rheman Merrick takes my
hands and lowers me into the sewer. I’m
not exactly heavy, but I’m almost of age and have done nearly all
my growing. Still, my weight seems
trivial to the creature. My feet touch
down with a wet slap, and I stare up at the square of light above. Then
Rheman Merrick leans down, holding the basking lamp in one hand. It must have snapped it off the wall. I take
it and look around. The tun
nel is dank and grim,
meandering off in two directions. I set the lamp down to help lower Calipsie to the floor.
I’ve no idea when the sluice water will
flow, but we need to be out of here before then.
Rheman Merrick leaps down
and lands with a splash. The putrid mess
splatters my legs, but I don’t complain. I still don’t know what I’m dealing with. The creature has been friendly
until now, but that could change.
Rheman Merrick drops to one
knee, squatting before Calipsie. ‘You
did all right in there. Being small has its advantages.’ I shuffle on the spot,
keen to be on the move. ‘We can’t go
uphill; it’ll take us deeper under the town,’ I say. ‘We should
head to the farms.’
‘I know where there’s
shelter,’ it says, standing. ‘We can get
cleaned up. Maybe even have a meal.’
A banging door echoes from
somewhere nearby, and the creature looks
up, its expression suddenly hostile. With a quick gesture for us to follow it, Rheman Merrick sets off down the
tunnel toward the farms. At first, we
run, then we slow to a fast walk. It’s quiet except for our feet slapping the putrid waste
coating the floor. For a long time, no
one says anything. When Calipsie finally speaks, she strikes bone with her question.
‘If you’re Rheman, why’d you
help us?’
The Rheman’s response is
quiet, and its words send a chill
through me.
‘Some of us are tired of
being someone else’s nightmare.’ ‘Who are you really?’ asks Calipsie.
‘My name is Kranik,’ the
creature says. ‘What do they call you?’ Calipsie shares her name and then
introduces me. She doesn’t share my
reservations about the Rheman, and I can hardly scold her here. ‘What about
your body?’ asks Calipsie.
‘This body belongs to
Merrick,’ Kranik says.
Interestingly, it can name
the owner, and correctly too. Calipsie goes quiet, probably plotting her next
line of interrogation. ‘I’m just borrowing it,’ Kranik says, filling the
silence. Maybe it
thinks it owes us an
explanation. For a fleeting moment, I pity it. ‘Your Asaurin is very good,’ I
say, surprising myself. The Rheman has
had nineteen alignments to learn Sojour’s continental language. It probably speaks perfect Farich too.
The creature—Kranik—nods.
‘Thank you. Communication is essential.
Change is impossible without understanding.’ I feel annoyed. No one would need
to change if its kind hadn’t invaded our
world.
‘It’s not much farther,’
Kranik says, picking up the pace. The tunnel gets narrower the farther we get
from the city, and I have the clawing
sense that the walls will crush us. Sharing the tight space with a Rheman isn’t helping.
‘Can we take the next
outlet?’ I ask. The smell alone is nauseating. ‘But your Stain . . .’ it says.
‘I don’t care about my
Stain,’ I snap. How much worse can it be
outside, with the ghoragalls circling, than being trapped underground with a
Rheman?
‘And the girl?’
The Rheman has a point. If
we’re stumbling around outside in the
dark, we’ll be begging to join Helacth’s army of Quelled.
‘Where are we going?’ Not
knowing is making me crazy. ‘Nortjie Farm. I know the owners,’ says Kranik.
Most of Sojour could say the
same. The farm is run by Sion Chaffrot
and his sister Maisi. It’s one of the largest in all of Sojour.
Thinking about it, I haven’t seen either
of them at the market for an age.
‘And you think they’ll be
there?’ I ask, making an effort to keep
the worry from my voice.
‘They’re both home,’ says
Kranik.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘The Sion had an accident,’
replies the Rheman. ‘He’s unable to
walk.’
About C.L. Lauder:
C. L. Lauder grew up in South Africa before immigrating to
the United Kingdom, where she attended the University of London to complete an
MA in Creative Writing. She now lives at the foot of a lush mountain in Hong
Kong with her husband and two rapidly lengthening sons, who all enjoy their
newfound proximity to nature, especially the sea.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a THE QUELLING box with a book and swag, International.
Ends April 23rd, midnight EST.
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
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3/25/2024 |
Excerpt |
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3/26/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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3/27/2024 |
IG Post |
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3/28/2024 |
Excerpt |
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3/29/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
Week Two:
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4/1/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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4/2/2024 |
Excerpt |
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4/3/2024 |
IG Review |
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4/4/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/5/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
Week Three:
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4/8/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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4/9/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/10/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/11/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/12/2024 |
IG Review |
Week Four:
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4/15/2024 |
Review |
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4/16/2024 |
IG Review |
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4/17/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/18/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/19/2024 |
Excerpt |
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4/19/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/20/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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