DROPIE DROPIE

WE LOB YOU, Icoberry—the strawberry princess! So glad you joined. You make this community feel even warmer already, and we’re genuinely so happy to have you here <3

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Dearest children of earth and eclipse, wanderers carved from stardust and saltwater grief, creatures of flesh, folklore, and feverish imagination, thank you for gathering beneath the candlelight of our little universe and leaving pieces of yourselves upon the table of our #GGDineDiary.

To those who arrived like comets, like storms, like soft hymns carried through dying constellations, thank you for staining the afternoon with your laughter, your madness, your tenderness, your beautiful ruin. Every story you spilled still clings to the walls like perfume trapped inside an abandoned cathedral.

The plates are empty now. The wine has long gone cold. Yet the remnants of your voices still drift through the corners of the room like sacred ghosts refusing to leave. What a gorgeous catastrophe it was!
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“Forwards, beckon, rebound…” ♪ ₊˚ ♬

The eve of the seventeenth has settled over us like a shroud, and the kitchen of Gilded Gliders Grand Manor smells entirely of burnt sugar, sharp lemon zest, and the unmistakable, earthy stench of a wet parrot. It’s a beautiful wreckage, a frantic sort of alchemy, and I wouldn’t trade it for a single second of peace. What a pure friction.

Originally, the plan for IDAHOBIT was supposed to be a solitary affair. Just me, some flour, and the echoing expanse of the manor, baking something passably decent to mark the seventeenth of May. But pride isn’t the sort of thing you can keep buried under the floorboards, is it? It sprawls. It reaches out, entirely on its own terms. Before I really grasped what I was doing, the invitation had already bled outward. The two wretched bloomers of Pollen & Poetry, Baba Michael, and Charmaine are here now, filling the heavy, silent corners of this massive house with their own distinct warmth. Even the menagerie has joined the fray. Picasso, Islavia’s brilliantly obnoxious parrot, is currently perched on a high shelf, screaming what sounds suspiciously like “More butter!” at regular intervals. Down below, Shiloh’s cat, Gigiano, is doing that inherently feline thing of winding herself tightly around everyone’s ankles, risking immediate flattening. And just outside the large kitchen window, my Krystal watches it all. To any untrained eye, he’s just a standard black horse, but I know the majestic, heavy wings he keeps tucked away under that clever disguise. His dark eyes are perfectly still, reflecting the warm, flickering glow of the hearth.

“Watch the bloody feathers, Picasso,” I mutter, brushing a stray grain of sugar off my sleeve.

This day, it matters. It is so terribly easy to forget, when you are safe inside thick stone walls like these, that IDAHOBIT (International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia) was established back in 2004 for a very stark reason, to draw global attention to the violence and systemic discrimination the LGBTQIA+ community still faces. May 17th wasn’t just plucked out of thin air, either. It marks the exact day in 1990 when the World Health Organization finally, mercifully, removed homosexuality from the International Classification of Diseases. It’s a day of deep reflection, a day of memory, and a day of fierce, rooted autonomy, a haunting reminder that our existence was once written down as a sickness, and that we had to claw our way out of those definitions with bleeding fingers.

Looking around the room at Shiloh, at Islavia, at Baba Michael, at Charmaine, at the sheer, unapologetic noise of everyone just existing here, the whole weight of the day hits somewhere bruised and hushed in my chest. You realise pretty quickly that baking a few loaves of bread has very little to do with the food itself. It’s the act of throwing the doors open. Sanctuary is a fragile, ghostly thing, something you have to actively scrape together with your own hands because the cold world outside certainly won’t hand it to you. Right now, there is flour dusting every surface like ash, the din is loud enough to rattle my teeth, and my heart feels stupidly, entirely full. Pride is coming, and heaven knows, I think we’re ready for it. Let the floodgates open. Truth be told, I’m prepared to leave a piece of myself in the dirt for it. I am braced for the slaughter!
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IDAHOBIT

The morning at Pollen & Poetry began with the scent of dried roses, fresh eucalyptus, and ribbons of sunlight slipping through stained-glass windows. Usually, only the quiet rustle of bouquet paper and the soft hum of Islavia’s melodies filled the little shop. But today, another presence lingered beside the florist’s table.

A black-winged Pegasus stood patiently near the doorway.

Crystal lowered his head as Islavia tucked the final peony into a bouquet tied with ivory silk. Tiny stars seemed to glimmer beneath his mane whenever he moved. Though born somewhere far beyond Earth’s skies, Crystal had grown strangely comfortable among flower baskets, old poetry books, and sleepy cats wandering around the shop.

“You’ve been staring at the lilies for ten minutes,” Islavia laughed softly while adjusting the bouquet. “Do they remind you of home?”

Crystal let out a gentle sound, almost like a chiming bell.

“Ah… so outer space has silver gardens too?”

The Pegasus nudged her shoulder in response.

Since Raven had gone abroad with Cressida, Crystal temporarily became the unofficial delivery assistant of the flower shop. And surprisingly, he was excellent at it.

Bouquets arrived untouched. Delicate flowers never wilted during transport. Customers even claimed the flowers smelled sweeter after being delivered by him.

Throughout the day, Crystal flew across the town carrying arrangements of hydrangeas, tulips, and moonflowers in elegant baskets attached to his sides. Children waved at him from windows. Old ladies offered him apples. Some people thought he was merely a dream passing through the clouds.

By late afternoon, Crystal finally returned to the shop looking exhausted, wings slightly drooping.

“Oh dear,” Islavia whispered dramatically while placing both hands on her hips. “That is the face of an overworked celestial employee.”

Crystal huffed.

“No, no excuses. You delivered eleven orders today. Eleven. Even I would collapse.”

The Pegasus lightly tapped the floor as if demanding compensation.

“You want luxury treatment already?” Islavia giggled. “Alright then. Come with me.”

As sunset painted the horizon lavender and gold, Islavia led Crystal away from the town and into her hidden magical forest, a place untouched by ordinary humans. Fireflies floated like drifting stars between ancient trees. The river glowed faintly blue beneath the moonlight.

Crystal immediately buried his face into the fresh pasture grass with visible happiness.

“I knew you’d like this place,” Islavia said while sitting beside him beneath a willow tree. “Earth isn’t too bad, is it?”

Crystal lifted his head and gave a pleased chirp.

The florist opened a tiny glass bottle filled with lavender oil and gently brushed some onto Crystal’s mane. The sweet floral scent blended beautifully with the cool forest air.

“You really adore lavender,” she murmured.

Crystal leaned closer, almost demanding more.

“Oh? More spoiled behavior?” Islavia teased. “At this rate, Raven will come home to a Pegasus who only accepts luxury spa treatments.”

The Pegasus spread his wings proudly.

For hours, the forest echoed with quiet conversations between florist and creature. Islavia spoke about the flowers blooming this season, about the lonely stars appearing earlier lately, about how strangely peaceful the shop felt with Crystal around.

And Crystal listened.

Sometimes with soft chirps. Sometimes by brushing his nose against her shoulder. Sometimes simply by remaining beside her beneath the glowing trees.

“You miss Raven, don’t you?” Islavia asked quietly at one point.

Crystal lowered his head.

“…But you’re trying to be brave while waiting.”

A gentle breeze passed through the forest as if the trees themselves understood.

Then Islavia smiled softly and rested her hand against Crystal’s forehead.

“Until they return, you can stay here as long as you want. Pollen & Poetry always has room for wandering creatures.”

Isla is babysitting Crystal today