Riley Green Quotes

War breaks out between the colors blue and red, though green seems jealous that it wasn’t involved. Yellow, meanwhile, hides in the corner.

Once upon a time I was falling in love. Now I'm only falling apart.

If I’m kept here much longer, I think I’ll have to have another tantrum. They’re certainly more satisfying than I ever suspected. I can see why a person would get in the habit of it.

Today I realized that I am nothing more than tomorrow's ghost. In a way, it robs my sense of self to know I'm always changing; at the same time, it provides incentive to have the best today possible so I can have a positive influence on tomorrow and, if need be, shake some sense into the living. (Samantha Green)

Her green eyes look as if they are on fire in the in the reflection of the candle's light.

You always have a choice. It's just that you have to pay the price that goes along with your choice.

I’m fine where I am." “I’m fine where you are too.

He didn't want to puff her up. Puffed-up women are one of the original sources of trouble in the world. If anyone knew that, it was he. He counted it as one of his duties to mankind to keep women from puffing themselves up, though it had been a most monumental duty in his own marriage. A job requiring a hero. It was one of those things that God, being male, questioned you about before you were let into heaven, and he was proud to say that he hadn't neglected it.

Pretty,” said Cree. “It was very pretty.” She giggled as she stroked her green nails over her cheeks and smiled at Riley. “I suppose I let the poison go too long. I killed my parents and my younger brother and the cat. I do miss the cat.

I was Juliet and Quinn was Romeo, and the lines weren't dead black-and-white words on a page but somehow alive, as natural and real as the argument we'd had about the spider and the fly. The rows of empty seats were gone, and we were in a candlelit ballrooom, wrapped in our own cocoon of words. But the playful banter of our words couldn't mask what we both knew--that after this, nothing would be the same . And then we got to the kissing part, which we'd only read through together and had never really rehearsed. But it didn't matter, because I was still Juliet and Quinn was still Romeo, his gray-green eyes fixed on mine. And when he bent to kiss me, it was Romeo's lips on Juliet's. Even so, Juliet was just as stunned as I would've been. When I said the last line, I was speaking for both of us. You kiss by the book.

"Lights go green and even with you," she sings, "same old road leading nowhere new." "What about--" Riley's head lifts in surprise hearing my voice, hunger in her eyes. I know it's not only for creative collaboration. "Lights go green, and maybe with you," I say softly, slightly revising the line's ending, "same old road can lead somewhere new.

Amelia was a porcelain doll inside a suit of armor. As indestructible as she appeared, she was designed to shatter.

Croque Madame drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Bridges are one of the first things the enemy looks to destroy.” “Why? So people can’t get to work?” Terk asks. “No,” Cardyn counters. “It’s so trucks can’t pass over and boats can’t pass through. It’s all about cutting off supply lines.” He taps his temple. “Very clever strategy.” Brohn shakes his head. “It’s to destroy morale. Bridges are symbols. They show there’s nothing human beings can’t do, no distance we can’t cross. Destroy that, and you destroy morale. Destroy morale, and you keep everyone afraid and too broken to fight back.” Rain suggests that targeting bridges has to do with a reallocation of resources. “It’s like in chess,” she says. “If I can get you to dedicate your pieces to defense on one side of the board, I’m free to launch my attack on the other.” I tell them I’m pretty sure I read that the destruction of bridges in war is to prevent the movement of enemy troops. From a few rows behind us, Manthy’s voice is smooth and even. “It’s about separation.” She seems fixated on something outside the bus—maybe the long green grass along the side of the road or the intact houses and shops up ahead—and doesn’t turn to look at us.

Checketts picked up on just how deeply Riley believed in being on the same page within months of working with him. During the team’s first training camp in Charleston, in 1991, Checketts and Riley were having lunch when Checketts’s cell phone rang, interrupting the talk. It was his wife, Deborah, who was about to buy a Chevy Suburban sport-utility vehicle, and wanted her husband’s input on color. Deborah had all but decided on the color green, and asked her husband if he was okay with that option. He was, and told her that would be a perfectly fine choice. But then Riley, who was sitting next to Checketts and had listened in enough to know the couple was choosing a color for a new vehicle, butted in. “What are you talking about? She can’t buy a green car, Dave. Green is the Celtics,” Riley said, referring to the team that had served as the archrival of his Showtime Lakers during the 1980s. Checketts laughed, before realizing Riley’s facial expression hadn’t changed. “I’m dead serious,” Riley said. So Checketts, still on the phone with his wife, told her she couldn’t get a green Suburban. When Deborah asked what other colors were available, the car salesman suggested red. So she asked Checketts how he felt about red. Again, Checketts was fine with that option. Again, Riley wasn’t. “What? Red is the Bulls,” said Riley, almost annoyed Checketts would even ask his take on the color. Checketts relented. “Don’t come home with anything but a blue one,” he told his wife, before hanging up. This was how Riley was wired. You were either all the way in on supporting his vision—down to the color of your car—or you weren’t.

God sees everybody. I wanted to be special. I guess I thought it would be very fine if everybody said, ‘There goes Brother Gregory; he may only be a second son, but he’s really illuminated.’ But that just turns out to be Pride.” He sighed. “I guess you can’t find God by looking.” “I think—I think you can by asking. And—by listening …” She curled up in the covers and closed her eyes again. Gregory tucked his knees up, and put his elbows on them. Resting his chin on his cupped hands, he peered into the impenetrable darkness. He listened. First he heard his own breath coming evenly in the quiet, and the soft pulse of Margaret’s beside him as she returned to sleep. Then he heard the little uneven puffs of the baby in the cradle, and through the walls the children and old Mother Sarah and Cook and even the neighbors. The little thoughts that cluttered his mind like busy ships moving to and fro in the harbor had been swept away in the listening, and he no longer sensed himself as he listened. He wasn’t turning over old sins like moss-covered stones to see what was underneath; he wasn’t addressing prayers to the Virgin or imagining the Passion; he wasn’t naming the seven virtues or praising the mighty deeds of God. Not a thought of last night’s supper or tomorrow’s breakfast flitted past like a distracting moth. And still he listened, until he could hear the deep and ageless sound of the earth breathing. And beyond that, nothing. As he entered Nothing, a strange warmth sprang up in his breast, somewhere around the heart. And he didn’t say, Aha! this is described in the Incendium Amoris but not in the Scala Claustralium, but instead, Let it be. It kindled and sprang higher until he was ablaze with it. It reached high up, outward, and inward into the Nothing. Pure love, on fire. It blazed, for a fragment of a moment, all the way to God, like a spark rising in the darkness. And as it died down, he could sense that everything on earth was softly glowing with it. “Astonishing,” said Gregory to himself as it faded and he returned. “I must try this again sometime,” he mumbled, as he rolled over and sleep overtook him.

The psalmist says, ‘He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters.’ I find it beautiful that in the face of terror; God doesn't bid us toward courage as we might perceive it. Instead, he draws us toward fear’s essential sister, rest—a sister who is not meant to replace fear but to exist together in tension and harmony with it […] And, of course, there is a fear that leans more toward awe than terror. A kind of delight. Your gut plummets within you as you drop from a bungee cord. The drum of a heart turning corners in a corn maze. I believe fear has the holy potential to draw out awe in us. To lead us into deeper patterns of protection and trust. To mould us into people engaged in the unknown, capable of making mystery of it instead of terror.

RILEY CHECKED IN with Greene at Langley after his lunch with Abigail. “You say she quivered when you

Zain poured skimmed milk over Weetabix, throwing in a handful of cashew nuts to add flavour. A glass of grapefruit juice to go with it, and green tea. He tried to avoid caffeine. Maybe the green pills were loaded with it, anyway. Alligator balls, snake venom and caffeine. He

Ember was watching me, green bright eyes in the shadows of the room. She crouched against the wall with her wings pressed close and her tail curled around herself. Even with her fangs slightly bared and her sides heaving with fear, she was still beautiful, elegant, fiery, everything my dragon wanted.

Cecily sat back and wiped her sweating brow, stuck the trowel into the soil, then stood up and walked into the house to pour herself a glass of cool lemonade from the refrigerator. She stepped out onto the veranda to drink it and admire her handiwork. The garden was really starting to take shape now; the green lawns that swept down towards the valley were edged by beds of hibiscus and clusters of white and red poinsettias

An entire pack of male juveniles cornered me the other day to ask if I didn't think leopards were good enough for me... When I pointed out that I could gut them all with a butter knife but that I might have difficulty doing the same to Riley, they turned green. You might have to pet a few later on -- I think I scared them off sex with leopard females.

Distinctive crusader crosses also distinguished national contingents. According to Jonathan Riley-Smith, at the planning meeting for the Third Crusade (1189–1192), the French decided to wear red crosses, the English white, and the Flemish green.

It was disconcerting, terrifying, but there was euphoria to be found within the fear, like a free fall into a black hole. She couldn’t know what was at the bottom, but the path down felt like flying.

when she turned to Orlando to speak to him, I saw she had what Pa Salt would have termed a Roman nose, which sat prominently in her striking face. She was certainly not classically beautiful and, from the look of her jeans and old sweater, did not care to make herself more so. Yet, there was something very attractive about her and I realized I wanted her to like me—an unusual feeling. “Are you coping back there?” she asked me. “Not far now.” “Yes, thank you.” I leaned my head against the windowpane as the thick hedges, their height exaggerated by the low car, flew by me, the country lanes becoming narrower. It felt so good to be out of London, with only the odd red-brick chimney stack peeping out from behind the wall of green. We turned right, through a pair of old gates that led to a drive so potholed that Marguerite’s and Orlando’s heads bumped against the roof. “I really must ask Mouse to bring the tractor and fill in these holes with gravel before the winter comes,” she commented to Orlando. “Here we are, Star,” she added as she pulled the car to a halt in front of a large, graceful house, its walls formed from mellow red brick, with ivy and wisteria fringing the uneven windows in greenery. Tall, thin chimney stacks, which emphasized the Tudor architecture, reached up into the crisp September sky. As I squeezed myself out of the back of the Fiat, I imagined the house’s interior to be rambling as opposed to impressive—it was certainly no stately home; rather, it looked as if it had gently aged and sunk slowly into the countryside surrounding it. It spoke of a bygone era, one that I loved reading about in books, and I experienced a twinge of longing. I followed Marguerite and Orlando toward the magnificent oak front door, and saw a young boy wobbling toward us on a shiny red bike. He let out a strange muffled shout, tried to wave, and promptly fell off the bike. “Rory!” Marguerite ran to him, but he had already picked himself up. He spoke again, and I wondered if he was foreign, as I couldn’t make out what he was saying. She dusted him down, then the boy picked up the bike and the two of them walked back to us. “Look who’s here,” Marguerite said, turning directly to the boy to speak to him. “It’s Orlando and his friend Star. Try saying ‘Star.’ ” She particularly enunciated the “st” in my name. “Ss-t-aahh,” the boy said as he approached me, a smile on his face, before holding up his hand and opening his fingers out like a shining star. I saw that Rory was the owner of a pair of inquisitive green eyes, framed by dark lashes. His wavy copper-colored hair glowed in the sun, and his rosy cheeks dimpled with happiness. I recognized that he was the kind of child that one would never want to say no to. “He prefers to go by the name ‘Superman,’ don’t you, Rory?” Orlando chuckled, holding up his hand in a fist like Superman taking off into the air. Rory nodded, then shook my hand with all the dignity of a superhero, and turned to Orlando for a hug. After giving him a tight squeeze and a tickle, Orlando set him down, then squatted in front of him and used his hands to sign, also speaking the words clearly. “Happy birthday! I have your present in Marguerite’s car. Would you like to come and get it with me?” “Yes please,” Rory spoke and signed, and I knew then that he was deaf. I rifled through my rusty mental catalog of what I had learned

Some people consider themselves human beings put on this earth to have a spiritual experience. Other people say they're spiritual beings born to have a human experience. Me?" Riley smiled, green eyes flashing. "I'm a horse having a human experience.

Monday. Cassandra Jones ignored the butterflies in her stomach as she entered her fifth-grade classroom. The weekend had been rather emotional. For the first time since moving to Arkansas, she’d spent the night at a friend Riley Isabel’s house. By the time she went home, she and Riley were no longer friends, all because of a stupid fight over a dog. Her Sunday School teacher had encouraged Cassie to forgive and forget. Cassie waited in the bathroom during break and cornered Riley as soon as she came out of the stall. Riley hesitated, something like fear flashing across her face before her green eyes hardened. “What do you want?” She lifted her chin, the short strawberry-blond hair just grazing her neck. “I wanted to apologize,

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