About


Hello there!

  I am Mercy Rebonica, a tattler.

  I have a long link with tattling. Growing up, I was nourished on stories passed down in the clamour of lunch breaks, the whispers of long walks, the laughters during power cuts, and the murmurs before sleep. 

  What fascinates me most is how, in the telling, a story flickers back to life; the teller's eyes light up as though they're walking those same path, breathing the same breeze, and feeling those same heartbeats all over again. 

  It is this spark that draws me in every time. So here I am — to share the light and pass the tales along. 

Popular posts from this blog

Thursday Tales No. 2: Myno

Image
  Some stories are not entirely ours, but are told anyways. Not because we are mere tattlers, but because they echo something we have lived, something we remember in the quiet corners of ourselves.    Back when the world went quiet, a friend once spoke of a bird. The moment passed, but the thought of the bird, and what it represented, never left.    As you read, I hope you too find a glimmer of something forgotten, something familiar, something your own.
Read more

Thursday Tales No. 4: The Hands of the Clock

Image
They say, time and tide wait for none — yet a clock does, and so can a person. What happens when both pause? This story invites you into a moment of stillness to reflect on our relationship with time, the weight of productivity, the illusion of motion, and the quiet spaces between apathy and meaning.
Read more

Thursday Verse No. 4: Unfeather Yourself

Image
What is love? Ah, the age-old question. It’s difficult to define. Not because love is abstract, but because its definitions are ever-shifting. Love means different things to different people, at different times in their lives. This poem was born from my own reflections on that question. It comes from moments when I choose to set my guards aside, and experience the wholeness of love. It comes from those moments when love meant softness, patience, undemanding presence, and an ever-giving kind. It comes from a place of offering — of holding, without needing to hold on. Then, the moments passed. I returned to the definition I have always held: that love, no matter how generous, cannot exist without the self. And each time, I came back steadier, clearer, and more certain of what it means to give without diminishing. So, as I offer this poem, may it find its meaning in you. And may you find your current definition of love — whatever that may be — within it. Because no matter how it e...
Read more