Chase Hughes Quotes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Mister..." "Wrexion." Chase supplied with great dignity. "Mr.Hugh G. Wrexion.

Mind control is pretty easy. All the ingredients are always there, it’s just that people don’t have the recipe.

Always he's looking for something, he's chasing it. Always the neighbour's grass is greener, somewhere else, over the next hill." Her smile was slight. "My grass is green enough.

We are all affected in conversations of all kinds by something called the ‘truth bias.’ This phenomenon suggests that when we like someone, even just a little, our brains will make a decision, without our knowledge, to see only truth. Deceptive indicators and warnings are deleted from the memory of experiences with people. Our brains are working to do the right thing, and when we interact with someone we like, our brains will seek confirmation of this and ignore anything that conflicts with it.

Dunning-Krueger Effect.

Despite the beliefs and opinions of some psychologists, nothing related to human psychology and behavior is absolutely quantifiable.

Fear is the most certain way to increase predictability in human beings.

In the Airmada audiences were people who had come from all over the world to chase the good life in the United States of America. They had found a country more to their liking than the ones they had left, but they bridled at the barriers they had found to their advancement: their religions and ethnicities. The U.S. Treasury Department made sure the members of all ethnic groups equated buying bonds with proving their loyalty.

I prop my guitar up against the nightstand. Then I turn toward the bed and fall into it face first. The mattress is soft but firm, like a sheet of steel wrapped in a cloud. I roll around, moaning loud and long. “Oh, that’s good. Really, really good. What a grand bed!” Sarah clears her throat. “Well. We should probably get to sleep, then. Big day tomorrow.” The pillow smells sweet, like candy. I can only imagine it’s from her. I wonder if I pressed my nose to the crook of her neck, would her skin smell as delicious? I brush away the thought as I watch her stiffly gather a pillow and blanket from the other side of the bed, dragging them to . . . the nook. “What are you doing?” She looks up, her doe eyes widening. “Getting ready for bed.” “You’re going to sleep there?” “Of course. The sofa’s very uncomfortable.” “Why can’t we share the bed?” She chokes . . . stutters. “I . . . I can’t sleep with you. I don’t even know you.” I throw my arms out wide. “What do you want to know? Ask me anything—I’m an open book.” “That’s not what I mean.” “You’re being ridiculous! It’s a huge bed. You could let one rip and I wouldn’t hear it.” And the blush is back. With a vengeance. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” “You don’t fart?” I scoff. “Really? Are you not human?” She curses under her breath, but I’d love to hear it out loud. I bet uninhibited Sarah Von Titebottum would be a stunning sight. And very entertaining. She shakes her head, pinning me with her eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.” “No.” I explain calmly, “I’m just free. Honest with myself and others. You should try it sometime.” She folds her arms, all tight, trembling indignation. It’s adorable. “I’m sleeping in the nook, Your Highness. And that’s that.” I sit up, pinning her gaze right back at her. “Henry.” “What?” “My name is not Highness, it’s fucking Henry, and I’d prefer you use it.” And she snaps. “Fine! Fucking Henry—happy?” I smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I flop back on the magnificent bed. “Sleep tight, Titebottum.” I think she growls at me, but it’s muffled by the sound of rustling bed linens and pillows. And then . . . there’s silence. Beautiful, blessed silence. I wiggle around, getting comfy. I turn on my side and fluff the pillow. I squeeze my eyes tight . . . but it’s hopeless. “Fucking hell!” I sit up. And Sarah springs to her feet. “What? What’s wrong?” It’s the guilt. I’ve barged into this poor girl’s room, confiscated her bed, and have forced her to sleep in a cranny in the wall. I may not be the man my father was or the gentleman my brother is, but I’m not that much of a prick. I stand up, rip my shirt over my head. and march toward the window seat. I feel Sarah’s eyes graze my bare chest, arms. and stomach, but she circles around me, keeping her distance. “You take the bloody bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the bloody nook.” “You don’t have to do that.” I push my hand through my hair. “Yes, I do.” Then I stand up straight and proper, an impersonation of Hugh Grant in one of his classic royal roles. “Please, Lady Sarah.” She blinks, her little mouth pursed. “Okay.” Then she climbs onto the bed, under the covers. And I squeeze onto the window bench, knees bent, my elbow jammed against the icy windowpane, and my neck bent at an odd angle that I’m going to be feeling tomorrow. The light is turned down to a very low dim, and for several moments all I hear is Sarah’s soft breaths. But then, in the near darkness, her delicate voice floats out on a sigh. “All right, we can sleep in the bed together.” Music to my ears. I don’t make her tell me twice—I’ve fulfilled my noble quota for the evening. I stumble from the nook and crash onto the bed. That’s better.

The man was naked. He was all bones and ribs and snarling mouth. The front of him was caked in blood, a smear of charcoal black in the dim red glow of Palmer’s dive light. There was just a flash of this grisly image before the man crashed into Palmer, knocking him to the ground, desperate hands clenching around his throat. Palmer saw pops of bright light as his head hit the floor. He couldn’t breathe. He heard his own gurgles mix with the raspy hisses from the man on top of him. A madman. A thin, half-starved, and full-crazed madman. Palmer fought for a breath. His visor was knocked from his head. Letting go of the man’s wrists, he reached for his dive knife, but his leg was pinned, his boot too far away. He pawed behind himself and felt his visor, had some insane plan of getting it to his temples, getting his suit powered on, overloading the air around him, trying to shake the man off. But as his fingers closed on the hard plastic—and as the darkness squeezed in around his vision—he instead swung the visor at the snarling man’s face, a final act before the door to that king’s crypt sealed shut on him. A piercing shriek returned Palmer to his senses. Or it was the hands coming off his neck? The naked man howled and lunged again, but Palmer got a boot up, caught the man in the chest, kicked him. He scrambled backward while the man reeled. The other diver. Brock’s diver. Palmer turned and crawled on his hands and knees to get distance, got around a desk, moving as fast as he could, heart pounding. Two divers. There had been two divers. He waited for the man’s partner to jump onto his back, for the two men to beat him to death for his belly full of jangling coin— —when he bumped into the other diver. And saw by his dive light that he was no threat. And the bib of gore on the man chasing him was given sudden meaning. Palmer crawled away, sickened. He wondered how long the men had been down here, how long one had been eating the other. Hands fell onto his boots and yanked him, dragging him backward. A reedy voice yelled for him to be still. And then he felt a tug as his dive knife was pulled from its sheath, stolen. Palmer spun onto his back to defend himself. His own knife flashed above him traitorously, was brought down by those bone-thin arms, was meant to skewer him. There was a crunch against his belly. A painful blow. The air came out of Palmer. The blade was raised to strike him again, but there was no blood. His poor life had been saved by a fistful of coin. Palmer brought up his knee as the man struck again—and shin met forearm with a crack. A howl, and the knife was dropped. Palmer fumbled for it, his dive light throwing the world into pale reds and deep shadows. Hand on the hilt, his knife reclaimed, he slashed at the air, and the man fell back, hands up, shouting, “Please, please!” Palmer scooted away, keeping the knife in front of him. He was weak from fitful sleep and lack of food, but this poor creature before him seemed even weaker. Enraged and with the element of surprise, the man had nearly killed him, but it had been like fighting off a homeless dune-sleeper who had jumped him for some morsel of bread. Palmer dared to turn his dive light up so he could see the man better. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” the man said. “Thought you were a ghost.” The

All I could see was the future. Our future. As a family. Waking up beside her. Candlelit picnics in the middle of my living room floor. Chasing her with the hose while washing my car when I was only looking for an excuse to wet her down and make out pressed against my car. Falling asleep with my arms wrapped around her every night.

Throughout the chase, Cerridwen retains her gender as she becomes a greyhound, an otter, a hawk (the female of which is reputed to be the more effective hunter), and finally a black-crested (or tufted) hen. In each case she initiates the transformative process. Immediately before her claws seize upon the escaping initiate, she forces him to transform, to leave the significance of one element and enter another. The chase is a complex and symbolic process that is controlled by the witch in her various guises. She is forcing the initiate forward, and we can assume that in this liminal state the true meaning of the entire sequence is made clear to her. Previously she was driven by the needs of a mother, but within the chase she is partially liberated from her human component; we are informed that her form is changed but not her nature. Therefore, in the shapes of animals and birds, she maintains aspects of her humanity whilst simultaneously accessing the source. Ultimately her task is to initiate.

I have sat here for 13 years weeping at the tragedy of so many people wasting the precious gift of life by chasing the mirage of a bigger GDP.

Chase had nothing against Hughes, but thought “for a woman of Sylvia Plath’s stature this is simply a disaster of the first order.

But her role had changed; she was now available for marriage and her primary task was to find a mate. As Florence and Hugh Bell's daughter, she was expected to make an excellent match. And if there wasn't one here, at least she would learn how to conduct herself for the chase.

Mooney was the class bully, a boy who had already failed two grades by the time he landed in mine. He was fat, sweaty and loud, and all the kids were scared of him. With good reason. If Mooney wanted something he took it, and woe to the child who tried to stop him. But Mooney was also crafty and sly. He never retaliated when an adult was near, preferring to ambush his prey when he could catch them off-guard, knowing it would be his word against the victims if the kid were stupid enough to tell. Sitting next to him was torture. I always carried extra pencils because I knew Mooney would confiscate the one I was using. And I considered myself lucky that pencils were all he’d taken so far. At least, I was lucky until the week before our midterm tests. Because the weather was nasty that Monday, our recess was taken in the gym. I was sitting on the bleachers taking a breather, watching Jenna chase Hugh in a game of tag, when Mooney confronted me. “You’re gonna let me copy off your paper when we take our tests next week,” he said. “If you don’t, I’ll stomp you into the ground.” He swaggered off, secure in the thought that I’d comply with his demand. I watched him in shock. Cheat? He wanted me to cheat on the tests? The Judge would disown me. I would never be able to look my grandfather in the eye again. There was no way I could let Mooney copy, even knowing he would kill me when it was over. Death before dishonor was my family motto.

Her smile chased away the gloom with its brightness. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be." And right then, he knew he'd forgive her just about anything so long as she looked at him that way.

Ladies, ladies, ladies,” Hugh Shaughnessy said as he strode into the room with his son in his arms. “There is plenty of this baby – and his poop – to go around.

He’s gone? Then why can’t I look?” “Just be patient. They’re almost done.” His hold relaxed as Hugh reached up and patted her on the head. Her mouth dropped open. He actually patted her on the head. Like she was an obedient toddler or a puppy who’d learned to sit on command. After the all clear, she was so going to punch him. Hard. In his stupid, too-appealing face.

I have the past four years of Tattered Hearts on DVD.” Sitting up, she sucked in an excited breath. “At my house.” Slumping down again, she gave him her best hungry-puppy look. It wasn’t as effective as his, but it seemed to get her what she wanted from Hugh a little over half the time. “Can you bring them here on a day I’m not working at Nan’s? Please?” “No. They’re for residents of my house only.

Theo tied off the top of a full garbage bag and then lifted it out of the container without any visible effort. Although the play of his muscles didn’t fascinate Grace as much as if Hugh had been the one flexing, she couldn’t help but watch. A balled-up paper towel hit her on the side of the head, bouncing off harmlessly. Grace turned narrowed eyes on Hugh. “That better have been clean.” “It was. Mostly. Now stop drooling over Theo and pay attention to me.

She grinned at him and he quieted abruptly.

He waved at a red pickup—one that looked old in a ready-for-the-junkyard way, rather than in a classic-car-show way—parked behind Jules’s SUV. A shepherd-type dog sat in the passenger seat, watching them with huge, pricked ears. “Why?” “No reason.” A rustling sound made her jerk her head around, but it was only the wind making leaves dance across the road. “Uh-huh,” Hugh said, not sounding as if he believed her. “Was someone bothering you in there?” “She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Although she would’ve sworn she heard someone outside her dressing room, she was starting to think that she was imagining things. After all, the past several days would’ve messed with almost anyone’s sanity. Since she didn’t want to consider that she couldn’t trust her own senses, she changed the subject. “What are you doing out here?” “Just…more errands.” For the first time since she’d met him, Hugh didn’t answer with his usual cocky confidence. Instead, his gaze darted to the side as he slid his hands in his pockets, looking like a strangely appealing combination of naughty boy and confident man. He snuck a glance at her, and she raised an eyebrow, making him huff and swing a hand toward the pickup. “My truck’s right there. I had to walk by here to get to it.” “Uh-huh.” She echoed his skeptical sound from earlier. “Do we need to have the stalking-is-bad talk again?” “I’m a cop, not a stalker,” he said with exaggerated patience. “I arrest stalkers.” “Might want to check out your house.” “What?” She smirked. “It’s looking a little see-through and glassy to me.” “What?” “Glass house? Throwing stones?” Lips pursed, he eyed her for several seconds. “You’re not very good at telling jokes.” “I’m an excellent joke teller!” Grace huffed. “Uh-huh.

So..." His eyebrows wagged teasingly, "Wanna make out?

Lerner held that Brigadoon was one of Minnelli’s least vivacious efforts, despite the potential offered by CinemaScope. Only the wedding scene and the chase that follows reveal Minnelli’s unique touch. Before shooting began, Freed rushed to inform Lerner that “Vincente is bubbling over with enthusiasm about Brigadoon.” But, evidently, his heart was not in this film. Early on, Minnelli made a mistake and confessed to Kelly that he really hadn’t liked the Broadway show. As a film, Brigadoon was curiously flat and rambling, lacking in warmth or charm, and the direction lacks Minnelli’s usual vitality and smooth flow. Admittedly, Lerner’s fairy-tale story was too much of a wistful fancy. Two American hunters go astray in the Scottish hills, landing in a remote village that seems to be lost in time. One of the fellows falls in love with a bonnie lass from the past, which naturally leads to some complications. Minnelli thought that it would be better to set the story in 1774, after the revolts against English rule had ended. For research about the look of the cottages, he consulted with the Scottish Tourist Board in Edinburgh. But the resulting set of the old highland village looks artificial, despite the décor, the Scottish costumes, the heather blossoms, and the scenic backdrops. Inexplicably, some of the good songs that made the stage show stand out, such as “Come to Me, Bend to Me,” “My Mother’s Wedding Day,” and “There But for You Go I,” were omitted from the film. Other songs, such as “The Heather on the Hill” and “Almost Like Being in Love,” had some charm, though not enough to sustain the musical as a whole. Moreover, the energy of the stage dances was lost in the transfer to the screen, which was odd, considering that Kelly and Charisse were the dancers. For some reason, their individual numbers were too mechanical. What should have been wistful and lyrical became an exercise in trickery and by-now-predictable style. With the exception of “The Chase,” wherein the wild Scots pursue a fugitive from their village, the ensemble dances were dull. Onstage, Agnes de Mille’s choreography gave the dance a special energetic touch, whereas Kelly’s choreography in the film was mediocre at best and uninspired at worst. It didn’t help that Kelly and Charisse made an odd, unappealing couple. While he looks thin and metallic, she seems too solemn and often just frozen. The rest of the cast was not much better. Van Johnson, as Kelly’s friend, pouts too much. As Scottish villagers, Barry Jones, Hugh Laing, and Jimmy Thompson act peculiarly, to say the least.

Staring into her coffee cup, Grace wondered how this had happened. How had she gone from her wonderful, sparkling life to where she was now, sitting in a VFW-turned-diner in the shrinking town of Monroe, Colorado, and dreading her upcoming shift at a dog kennel? “What’s wrong?” No. Please, no. Grace pushed her coffee out of the way so her forehead could hit the counter with a thump. Why do you hate me, God? “Are you sad because Oliver’s evil twin cheated on Constance with Tatiana?” “Stop!” Sitting up abruptly, Grace covered her ears and glared at Hugh. He looked all amused and hot and cheerful sitting there on the stool next to hers—right next to hers—and that made her even crankier.

A lucky shot to the groin, and then a knee to his face.” Hugh’s arms tightened around her. “Nice. Good job, Kick-Ass Gracie.

Opening her mouth, she turned to say something to Hugh, but the look on his face knocked all the words right out of her head. Instead, all she said was, “What?” “What?” he threw back at her. Of course he did. Because having a conversation with Officer Hugh Murdoch was like trying to discuss things with a twelve-year-old. And, for whatever strange reason, it turned her right back into a twelve-year-old as well, fighting the urge to stick out her tongue or kick him in the knee. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Like what?” “Like that.” “What?” “That… Okay, this is stupid.” She didn’t even know what her initial question had been anymore.

What the hell are you doing here?” Rudely snapped out of her Hugh daze, Grace snapped her head around to look at Theo. “Visiting local businesses?” Hugh offered, but Theo just glared. “Getting some ice cream?” That was the second time he’d mentioned ice cream in the past hour. Hugh must be getting hungry. He handed the gun and the bullets he’d removed from it over to Theo, who deposited them in his pocket without dropping his scowl. “Finding a quiet place to make out?” Grace flushed and was instantly annoyed at herself for turning red.

No.” Theo stopped, turning that too-intense gaze on her, and she struggled not to look away. “If Jovanovic is after you, then I don’t want you anywhere near Jules and the kids.” “But…” Once again, her life was spinning out of control. After the world’s worst dinner party, all she had was a tiny bedroom in a dilapidated house that she shared with a surprisingly endearing family. Now, the threat of Martin Jovanovic was going to take even that away from her. Of course she didn’t want to endanger Jules or her siblings, but that was supposed to be her safe house. Now, she was cut adrift again, and this time, there was no safe place. Her voice came out embarrassingly small. “But that’s where I live.” It wasn’t until Hugh’s arm circled her that she realized how close he’d gotten. Although a part of her figured she should step away and put some distance between them, a much larger part of her wanted to lean against him and take advantage of the comfort he offered. Although a flicker of sympathy softened Theo’s expression for a moment, his tone remained firm. “We’ll find somewhere else for you to “live until we figure out what to do about Jovanovic.” The “we” surprised her. “You’re going to help me?” “Yes,” both men chorused.

Turning her head, she met Hugh’s amused gaze, and she bugged her eyes out at him. In response, he smirked and gave a tiny shrug that she translated as “That’s just Theo.” Holding back a snort of laughter, she refocused on the conversation.

Although Grace knew that she should resist, that Hugh wasn’t taking her seriously, and that she needed to get him to promise he wouldn’t almost die for her ever again, she was unable to stop herself from leaning in until their faces were just inches apart. “And I’m out,” Theo said. Startled, Grace tried to jerk back, but Hugh’s grip tightened, holding her in place. Despite his injuries, he was surprisingly strong. Theo gave Grace a reproving look, and she dropped her gaze. “I know.” She shot a quick glance at Hugh before sheepishly meeting Theo’s eyes again. “I folded. Sorry. It’s that puppy-dog look…” When his disapproving scowl didn’t waver, Grace, like the chicken that she was, tossed out a guaranteed distraction. “Jules is here.” With a shake of his head that expressed his disappointment in her lack of staying power against Hugh’s puppy eyes, Theo stalked to the door. “I don’t need to watch what’s coming.” “Not when you can go find Jules and have a make-out session of your own, right?” Hugh said slyly. Turning, Theo gave Hugh a severe look. Grace would’ve crumbled under that glare, but Hugh merely met Theo’s gaze with “with raised eyebrows and a smirk. Their stare down lasted an uncomfortably long time before Theo’s mouth twitched. “Maybe.” He left the room, closing the door behind him with a sharp thump.

She must’ve been silent too long, because Hugh spoke again. “That’s fine if you want to.” She sucked in a breath as the words stabbed her heart. “I’m sure I’ll learn to like it there. Maybe I can be a motorcycle cop like in that eighties show. It might be fun to be able to grow oranges in our yard, too. Whatever you decide, we’ll work it out.” He pressed a kiss to her neck as he tucked her closer to him. Giving his head another stroke, Grace blinked back surprised—but happy—tears. She hadn’t expected that he’d offer to move to California with her, rather than make her choose between him and her old life in LA.

This is where it starts—where it always starts: you peer out over your long nose and see green. It brushes against your outer coat and tickles the smooth skin of your belly. It blankets the ground beneath your paws. In place of the endless stone boxes the men built, giant green trunks rise up around you. You sit on your hindquarters but still can’t quite tilt your head back far enough to see their leafy tops. This isn’t your home. There’s no way you could’ve been here before. But somehow, it feels familiar. And there is something else you recognize. . . . Meat. Your whole body seems to shout the word at once. Fur bristles along your spine. Your muzzle twitches and saliva drips from your jowls. You feel the smooth sharpness of your tearing teeth. It has been so long. Where is the meat? Your ears stand upright, the fine hairs taking in everything. You hear the crisp snap of a small branch, then the whisper of fur brushing against leaves. You think you can even hear the trill of a heartbeat. More than anything, though, you can smell the creature, hidden in the shadows, between the darker shades of green. It smells like fear and food, like everything you love about the chase. It smells like life. Out of the corner of your vision, you sense motion. You spring forward from your back legs, and the animal bolts, a tawny blur. It’s not like the rodents you’re used to. This is bigger. It bounds instead of skitters, leaps instead of burrows. It’s all speed and grace, and you love the energy it takes to chase after it. Your pack is with you suddenly—brothers and sisters and second cousins, alphas and omegas. As you tear through the forest, head nodding and eyes watering, they trail in lines behind you, and you know without looking that your tail is streaming out like a flag. With the blood pumping inside your ears, each second sounds like a bark. The creature is faster than you are, but it’s losing steam. You’re panting but not tired. You run and run and run, watching the spindly legs flick through the underbrush ahead of you. You were made for this. There’s a flick of white, a flash of a hoof. You drive harder, your nails churning up cool dirt. The pack fans out and starts to close in, herding your prey closer and closer. It’s slowing. You’re gaining. It stumbles, and you dive. You open your jaws. You sink in your teeth. You savor.

Hang on.” His voice was even less than a gasp. It was more of an exhaled breath. He tried again. “Are you okay with this?” She glared up at him with her dark eyes narrowed. “I’m literally trying to get into your pants, Hugh. I think I’m fine.

If you are going to get out of bed and not chase your dreams, then why get out of bed at all?

The trash had no intelligence value. But it was useful as a prank. The next day the trash went out with every item, including a few well-thumbed Playboys as a special gift, covered in a thick slime of Aqua Lube, a green grease used for lubricating pipe joints that is designed for use in deep-ocean environments. It is detergent- and solvent-resistant and is famous for its ability to ruin clothes and stay on skin for days, even after vigorous washing. To make sure the Soviets didn’t miss a single bag of slimy mail, the crew began to pump acetylene gas into the bags. This made them extra-buoyant, so much so that they’d skip across the waves when thrown overboard, often causing the SB-10 to change course and chase them.

When she turned toward the couch, Dean motioned for her to sit next to him and Abby’s stomach fluttered.  God, what was it about this man that had her feeling so…giddy?  She was a grown woman and yet when Dean smiled at her, she felt like a teenage girl with her first crush!  She thought she’d be more mature about it at this point in her life but Dean Hughes just had a way of making everything girly in her go on hyper-alert when he was near. And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

The deeper satisfactions we crave come from strong bonds of mutual attachment to other people and larger causes outside ourselves. Then the mirrors become windows and doors into a wider world of loyalties. In that world a sense of well-being and happiness finds us rather than our frantically chasing it down. It is a place where a person has a chance to find the simple satisfaction that comes from doing a job the way it is supposed to be done.

The belief in you is the light you know. The relief it brings is the joy that grows. The dream you enjoy is the fantasy you live. If you find yourself lacking its because you are chasing dreams and not attracting the fantasy.

The belief in you is the light you know. The relief it brings is the joy that grows. The dream you enjoy is the fantasy you live. If you find yourself lacking, stop chasing dreams and start attracting the fantasy.