He pulled out his banana monitor. The banana monitor wasn’t actually for monitoring bananas or a monitor attached to a banana either. The banana monitor in Thomas’ hand was actually a screen to monitor levels of pressure inside of the fake banana casing housing the pipe bomb that he planned to set off in line with several windows on the de Havilland Comet. The experimental airplane was a great success and had a great design. It had one problem, it was beating the Boeing 747 series two to one in sales. Thomas was a mercenary hired by Boeing to take out the Comet’s reputation. This was the fifth and last strike that would lead to the discontinue of the de Havilland Comet.
Monitor. My big, bright LCD screen lights up my face a sickly blue. It’s two AM. I have a tab open to my Tumblr dash and my hand fondles a stylus busily as it dances across my WACOM table Jake and Dirk, en amour. Yeah, right.
The police officer looked straight at the monitor seeing the men working out in the yard of the prison. “Yes sir,” he says, “They’re doin’ just fine for now. No trouble so far.”
It’s not that I was exactly unwilling to watch over these children, monitoring their every move. It’s just that I would’ve rather been somewhere else, probably on tumblr, wasting away my entire summer reblogging and fantasizing about all the awesome things I could’ve been doing but WASN’T doing because I was reblogging….
It was torture. It was hell. He could see nothing, but constantly he could feel the eyes on him. They stared at him, watched him, monitored his every move. He’d been growing sick. Every day, his condition got worse. He was hungry, so hungry, but the only thing that he was offered to eat was a piece of brown and green bread, which would probably sooner kill him than help him.
There was a buzzing. The apathy that had begun to take root in his mind disappeared for a moment. Softly, barely distinguishable due to the static, he heard his name. “Al… Alfred… Are you there?”
He scrambled for the radio, eyes bright and hopeful as skeletal fingers wrapped around the thick machine. He pushed the ‘talk’ button and made several attempts to speak. His mouth was dry, though, and all that he could push out was a cough. After a minute, he finally was able to get out the scratchy, barely audible word.
“Rainer?”
There was a pause. For a moment, Alfred was afraid that his friend had given up.
“Stay alive. I’m coming to get you.”
With a sigh, the prisoner returned to lying on his side. He didn’t dare close his eyes, didn’t dare to fall asleep. Rainer was coming. He just had to wait.
it is a computer device. it has a lot of peices. it is a complex machine. it is what tells the computer what to do I think. it is the part where the computer sits on top of at a school
I stare at the monitor wondering what to write. Do I say how I really feel, or do I tell them what they want to hear (I always tell them what they want to hear). In the end I switched off the computer without writing a word, is it my world or theirs?
a monitor is a person who watches you with every move you make. another monitor is a computer monitor which helps you see what you are doing on the computer. the best monitor is a security monitor like a policeman.
The monitor showed a picture of a familiar face. Was he someone from my past or some one from today. I stared long and hard and tried to place where we met. I could not remember and as I stood there I got frustrated. What was it about his eyes that made me think that he was from my past, I spent the rest of the day thinking Bout the man I saw on the monitor.
I was chosen as hall monitor. I’m new at it, but I’m brave. I’m going to protect the school!! And I would’ve had I not been spooked by the man walking in the front door. He had a gun and he had a purpose. And none of my monitoring could stop him.
I monitor the world. I watch. I look. I keep. The world is mine to control. But yet I don’t interfere. I am the watchman. I watch and learn. I’ve learned that the world is dying, and I’m dying with it.
“I’m going to monitor your heart reactions over here.” The doctor said, motioning to a small computer screen. “You just hop onto the treadmill and start running.” Cynthia felt like test subject, but she gulped and obliged. She never did like exercising.
the old man monitored the group who were watching tv and then they stopped and left the room and then there was no one left to monitor . can i stop writing yet cause i dont know what to say about monitor . so for now i will just write some silly stuff like supervise and look and watch and that is all. ta da.
It is my friend, I always look at it. A person wouldn’t be able to handle a computer without it, and what is humanity without computers? We would be back at 1950, deprived of all our modern conveniences
the monitor stares at me while I rust my brains to find something which will never appear on my monitor ever again. creating things and posting it on web would be the ideal result, but sharing it with millions of other users may make me feel good that
The cursor blinked. The monitor was a monstrous thing, really, taking up most of the desk. But it was one of the few things that Mycroft had decided not to get rid of. It worked fine. It got the job done. It was reliable. It was rather important. The cursor blinked. His third memo of the day, and it was only seven in the morning. Saving the world, one email at a time.
The monitor was worn and old, tired, and had seen many, many world-saving emails and memos and plans and other top secret things that made the world the balanced thing that everyone had come to know.
The monitor was always there. Always ready.
Mycroft sighed. Sometimes, he wished he could just turn the damn thing off.
It stared, unblinking back at me. I had one chance to do this right, one bloody chance and it brought nothing but fear into my heart. My hands were poised to write but nothing came to me. It was blank. Empty. I gulped and pressed them closer.
The screen continued to blink in the dark, taunting me.
Sheila looked into her monitor. She saw nothing. She pressed several keys but the monitor would not reveal anything. Except perhaps for her face. A sour dough face that got reflected by the light above her. A ghostly apparition that would not let her be. Sheila sighed and
My monitor is trying to talk to me, but I don’t speak pixel. I don’t understand the pastel meshing of grey, black, white, charcole, slightly-grey-purple. There is a sliver of information coming through. It creeps along the bottom of the screen into deeper purples like clouds gathering at sunset.
oh phooey. i’m listening to Blur’s Charmless Man right now(it’s been on repeat honestly), and ‘monitor’ just doesnt strike any inspiration but i’m suppose to type anyway, so here you go. i sure do miss the old Blur.
a square LCd display screen that has the ability to visualize dreams, aspirations, images, inspiration and everything that could include hope and a chance to liven up your day. even though it is man made, it allows us to understand that we can be better people through the internet and the visualizations it gives us.
My monitor is trying to talk to me, but I dion’t speak pixel. I don’t understand the blurring of grey, white, charcole, purple, slightly-purple-grey. Only a sliver of information is getting through. It is creeping along the bottom, slowly deepening into darkest purple like clouds gathering at sunset.
Mylott Herbert Wandersbane – whose name inspired such incredulity that I have yet to meet its equal in this sense – was an old man, aged around 70, who came in some nights to the “Chestnut”. The Chestnut was run by a large, fat-faced woman who insisted everyone call her “Sissy”, and Basil and I gathered that she was trying to play the matronly part of the most popular cafe in OBryonsville. She was a giggly, rosy woman. I despised her.
Mylott wore drabby clothing, wrinkled, poor looking. He would order a coffee from that idiotic barrista and sit at a lone table towards the back, and drink silently. He didn’t bring anything to read, or anything at all. He simply sat there and sipped.
Basil, I think, was the first to take note of him, or, rather, to bring him up in conversation. We had monitored him for the last few nights he had come in, and he always came in at 9 and left at 12. Basil had been trying to find some way to criticize the old man, but couldn’t come up with anything, and I was purely intrigued as to his purpose in being there. Our inability to scrutinize him furthered out interest greatly, and even during the day our thoughts soon led to wondering who that old man at midnight was.
On the sixth night of his visitation, we were actually approached by him.
He wore a Motley-Crue tee-shirt and wore the largest, thickest pair of spectacles I think were commercially available. He was also much taller and lankier up close, and he gave off the impression of a large, looming, grinning owl. Basil and I were so shocked by this intrusion that we simply stared at him, appalled, until he spoke up.
This is what I am looking at right now, monitoring is a way to get a new look upon things. Monitoring is what we do alot these days where information has great value. People don’t want to be monitored but they are.
Many people came and saw the monitor lizard. It sat on the post mouth open, waiting for a bird to land and become it’s lunch. The watchers didn’t know whether to admire the lizard or fear for the birds.
The monitor in front of me is dull, emanating a kind of brightness that I can hardly see, the type that you get from a reflection in a pond, it’s there, yet it is very unclear. It displays webpage after webpage every day, and it surprises me that it has not yet fatigued yet. The pixels I can see individually as it is getting to be fairly outdated, but I do not care, that would be wistful, it does the job. It shows me how I am connected to the rest of the world through the internet and how I can reach any one connected in the tree of the internet in a second.
I think i spend a lot of time in front of different various boxes of different various hard edged sizes and i think i spend a bit too much time vacantly inside different beige drool boxes
Dankzij de monitor vertroebelt de blik op de wereld buiten je. Je ziet enkel quotes en meningen van anderen die nauwelijks iets weten van het woeden der wereld. Ga de wereld in, dat werkt.
Its a screen. A simple screen. So why does it bother my so much. I can’t stop thinking about how big and blank it is. Its like its taunting me with its presence. Telling to fill it with something, but i can never really get something on it. It just blinks at me.
You can monitor your child’s breathing.
Ender’s monitor measured his intelligence.
Surveillance cameras monitor your activities.
You never wanted the hall monitor to catch you without a pass to the potty.
There’s a monitor to regulate the amount of water that exits a fire hose.
The beeping of monitors count the seconds of silence at a hospital in the middle of the night.
You’re reading this on your computer monitor.
A lizard in the Komodo Dragon family.
Focus on the positive and monitor your thoughts lest you create what you sought to avoid.
He pulled out his banana monitor. The banana monitor wasn’t actually for monitoring bananas or a monitor attached to a banana either. The banana monitor in Thomas’ hand was actually a screen to monitor levels of pressure inside of the fake banana casing housing the pipe bomb that he planned to set off in line with several windows on the de Havilland Comet. The experimental airplane was a great success and had a great design. It had one problem, it was beating the Boeing 747 series two to one in sales. Thomas was a mercenary hired by Boeing to take out the Comet’s reputation. This was the fifth and last strike that would lead to the discontinue of the de Havilland Comet.
Monitor. My big, bright LCD screen lights up my face a sickly blue. It’s two AM. I have a tab open to my Tumblr dash and my hand fondles a stylus busily as it dances across my WACOM table Jake and Dirk, en amour. Yeah, right.
The police officer looked straight at the monitor seeing the men working out in the yard of the prison. “Yes sir,” he says, “They’re doin’ just fine for now. No trouble so far.”
It’s not that I was exactly unwilling to watch over these children, monitoring their every move. It’s just that I would’ve rather been somewhere else, probably on tumblr, wasting away my entire summer reblogging and fantasizing about all the awesome things I could’ve been doing but WASN’T doing because I was reblogging….
It was torture. It was hell. He could see nothing, but constantly he could feel the eyes on him. They stared at him, watched him, monitored his every move. He’d been growing sick. Every day, his condition got worse. He was hungry, so hungry, but the only thing that he was offered to eat was a piece of brown and green bread, which would probably sooner kill him than help him.
There was a buzzing. The apathy that had begun to take root in his mind disappeared for a moment. Softly, barely distinguishable due to the static, he heard his name. “Al… Alfred… Are you there?”
He scrambled for the radio, eyes bright and hopeful as skeletal fingers wrapped around the thick machine. He pushed the ‘talk’ button and made several attempts to speak. His mouth was dry, though, and all that he could push out was a cough. After a minute, he finally was able to get out the scratchy, barely audible word.
“Rainer?”
There was a pause. For a moment, Alfred was afraid that his friend had given up.
“Stay alive. I’m coming to get you.”
With a sigh, the prisoner returned to lying on his side. He didn’t dare close his eyes, didn’t dare to fall asleep. Rainer was coming. He just had to wait.
a device
has different colors
complex machine
used for different things
software
the brain of the
monitor
it is a computer device. it has a lot of peices. it is a complex machine. it is what tells the computer what to do I think. it is the part where the computer sits on top of at a school
I stare at the monitor wondering what to write. Do I say how I really feel, or do I tell them what they want to hear (I always tell them what they want to hear). In the end I switched off the computer without writing a word, is it my world or theirs?
controller
authority
brain
head
responsible
intelligent
vital
mine
helpful
guidance
computer
The monitor shook, and gave off an eerie glow. Words appearing on the screen, not making any sort of sense.
the monitor shows people things going on in the world like a news show or something like that and it shows what is going on with the TV. it sh
a monitor is a person who watches you with every move you make. another monitor is a computer monitor which helps you see what you are doing on the computer. the best monitor is a security monitor like a policeman.
The monitor showed a picture of a familiar face. Was he someone from my past or some one from today. I stared long and hard and tried to place where we met. I could not remember and as I stood there I got frustrated. What was it about his eyes that made me think that he was from my past, I spent the rest of the day thinking Bout the man I saw on the monitor.
The cursor blinked on the screen, taunting me with its inactivity.
“Well?” it seemed to ask, “aren’t you going to write something?”
I stared back at it, attempting to meet its challenge, but no words came. Yet again, my muse was silent. Yet again I had no idea what to write.
I was chosen as hall monitor. I’m new at it, but I’m brave. I’m going to protect the school!! And I would’ve had I not been spooked by the man walking in the front door. He had a gun and he had a purpose. And none of my monitoring could stop him.
I monitor the world. I watch. I look. I keep. The world is mine to control. But yet I don’t interfere. I am the watchman. I watch and learn. I’ve learned that the world is dying, and I’m dying with it.
“I’m going to monitor your heart reactions over here.” The doctor said, motioning to a small computer screen. “You just hop onto the treadmill and start running.” Cynthia felt like test subject, but she gulped and obliged. She never did like exercising.
the old man monitored the group who were watching tv and then they stopped and left the room and then there was no one left to monitor . can i stop writing yet cause i dont know what to say about monitor . so for now i will just write some silly stuff like supervise and look and watch and that is all. ta da.
An otherworldly gate
Its flatness in the dark
shines across my knuckles
unflattering
my hands scuttle across
as I fill a black space
Looking at other things
my eyes still remember
the quiet white.
It is my friend, I always look at it. A person wouldn’t be able to handle a computer without it, and what is humanity without computers? We would be back at 1950, deprived of all our modern conveniences
the monitor stares at me while I rust my brains to find something which will never appear on my monitor ever again. creating things and posting it on web would be the ideal result, but sharing it with millions of other users may make me feel good that
The cursor blinked. The monitor was a monstrous thing, really, taking up most of the desk. But it was one of the few things that Mycroft had decided not to get rid of. It worked fine. It got the job done. It was reliable. It was rather important. The cursor blinked. His third memo of the day, and it was only seven in the morning. Saving the world, one email at a time.
The monitor was worn and old, tired, and had seen many, many world-saving emails and memos and plans and other top secret things that made the world the balanced thing that everyone had come to know.
The monitor was always there. Always ready.
Mycroft sighed. Sometimes, he wished he could just turn the damn thing off.
It stared, unblinking back at me. I had one chance to do this right, one bloody chance and it brought nothing but fear into my heart. My hands were poised to write but nothing came to me. It was blank. Empty. I gulped and pressed them closer.
The screen continued to blink in the dark, taunting me.
Sheila looked into her monitor. She saw nothing. She pressed several keys but the monitor would not reveal anything. Except perhaps for her face. A sour dough face that got reflected by the light above her. A ghostly apparition that would not let her be. Sheila sighed and
My monitor is trying to talk to me, but I don’t speak pixel. I don’t understand the pastel meshing of grey, black, white, charcole, slightly-grey-purple. There is a sliver of information coming through. It creeps along the bottom of the screen into deeper purples like clouds gathering at sunset.
screen, looker afterer, plug, keep tabs on, uniter, one or,
oh phooey. i’m listening to Blur’s Charmless Man right now(it’s been on repeat honestly), and ‘monitor’ just doesnt strike any inspiration but i’m suppose to type anyway, so here you go. i sure do miss the old Blur.
a square LCd display screen that has the ability to visualize dreams, aspirations, images, inspiration and everything that could include hope and a chance to liven up your day. even though it is man made, it allows us to understand that we can be better people through the internet and the visualizations it gives us.
My monitor is trying to talk to me, but I dion’t speak pixel. I don’t understand the blurring of grey, white, charcole, purple, slightly-purple-grey. Only a sliver of information is getting through. It is creeping along the bottom, slowly deepening into darkest purple like clouds gathering at sunset.
Mylott Herbert Wandersbane – whose name inspired such incredulity that I have yet to meet its equal in this sense – was an old man, aged around 70, who came in some nights to the “Chestnut”. The Chestnut was run by a large, fat-faced woman who insisted everyone call her “Sissy”, and Basil and I gathered that she was trying to play the matronly part of the most popular cafe in OBryonsville. She was a giggly, rosy woman. I despised her.
Mylott wore drabby clothing, wrinkled, poor looking. He would order a coffee from that idiotic barrista and sit at a lone table towards the back, and drink silently. He didn’t bring anything to read, or anything at all. He simply sat there and sipped.
Basil, I think, was the first to take note of him, or, rather, to bring him up in conversation. We had monitored him for the last few nights he had come in, and he always came in at 9 and left at 12. Basil had been trying to find some way to criticize the old man, but couldn’t come up with anything, and I was purely intrigued as to his purpose in being there. Our inability to scrutinize him furthered out interest greatly, and even during the day our thoughts soon led to wondering who that old man at midnight was.
On the sixth night of his visitation, we were actually approached by him.
He wore a Motley-Crue tee-shirt and wore the largest, thickest pair of spectacles I think were commercially available. He was also much taller and lankier up close, and he gave off the impression of a large, looming, grinning owl. Basil and I were so shocked by this intrusion that we simply stared at him, appalled, until he spoke up.
This is what I am looking at right now, monitoring is a way to get a new look upon things. Monitoring is what we do alot these days where information has great value. People don’t want to be monitored but they are.
It glared back at me. The pale, receding complexion of the screen. The silence was astounding and cold.
News shouldn’t be given through a monitor. It’s just unjust, I thought.
Many people came and saw the monitor lizard. It sat on the post mouth open, waiting for a bird to land and become it’s lunch. The watchers didn’t know whether to admire the lizard or fear for the birds.
The monitor in front of me is dull, emanating a kind of brightness that I can hardly see, the type that you get from a reflection in a pond, it’s there, yet it is very unclear. It displays webpage after webpage every day, and it surprises me that it has not yet fatigued yet. The pixels I can see individually as it is getting to be fairly outdated, but I do not care, that would be wistful, it does the job. It shows me how I am connected to the rest of the world through the internet and how I can reach any one connected in the tree of the internet in a second.
I think i spend a lot of time in front of different various boxes of different various hard edged sizes and i think i spend a bit too much time vacantly inside different beige drool boxes
Dankzij de monitor vertroebelt de blik op de wereld buiten je. Je ziet enkel quotes en meningen van anderen die nauwelijks iets weten van het woeden der wereld. Ga de wereld in, dat werkt.
Its a screen. A simple screen. So why does it bother my so much. I can’t stop thinking about how big and blank it is. Its like its taunting me with its presence. Telling to fill it with something, but i can never really get something on it. It just blinks at me.
You can monitor your child’s breathing.
Ender’s monitor measured his intelligence.
Surveillance cameras monitor your activities.
You never wanted the hall monitor to catch you without a pass to the potty.
There’s a monitor to regulate the amount of water that exits a fire hose.
The beeping of monitors count the seconds of silence at a hospital in the middle of the night.
You’re reading this on your computer monitor.
A lizard in the Komodo Dragon family.