Tarot Runes I Ching Stichomancy Contact
Store Numerology Coin Flip Yes or No Webmasters
Personal Celebrity Biorhythms Bibliomancy Settings

Today's Stichomancy for Pamela Colman Smith

The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll:

ought to be made. And I couldn't help wishing there were some such rule in Society, at the conclusion of a song--that the singer herself should say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Suppose a young lady has just been warbling ('with a grating and uncertain sound') Shelley's exquisite lyric 'I arise from dreams of thee': how much nicer it would be, instead of your having to say "Oh, thank you, thank you!" for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves, while the impassioned words 'Oh, press it to thine own, or it will break at last!' are still ringing in your ears, "--but she wouldn't do it, you know. So it did break at last."

"And I knew it would!" she added quietly, as I started at the sudden


Sylvie and Bruno
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Twilight Land by Howard Pyle:

tumbled the bag of money.

But the beggar--well, by-and-by his grieving got better of its first smart, and then he started off down the river to see if he could not find his money again. He hunted up and he hunted down, but never a whit of it did he see, and at last he stopped at the rich man's house and begged for a bite to eat and lodgings for the night. There he told all his story--how he had hidden the money that had been given him from his brother, how his brother had broken off the branch and had thrown it away, and how he had spent the whole live-long day searching for it. And to all the rich man listened and said never a word. But though he said

The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Dreams & Dust by Don Marquis:

Are come strange shapes to mock at me . . . All pallid from the star-pale sea, White from the paling moon . . .

Or whirling fast or wheeling slow Around, around the corpse they go, All bloodless o'er the sickened sea Beneath the ailing moon!

And are they only wisps of fog That dance along the waves? Only shapes of mist the wind Drives along the waves?