eye

Revulsion.
A male troll, the variety that steals babies and demands favors, ransom, servitude. Hunched, jello neck, face pushed forward and screwed like turned taffy. Hair of a five year old girl, slicked and yanked, tearing silk. Squinting, wrinkles, shapeless clothes. Voice uppity, false. Pacing, wheedling.
Pompous, prim, predatory.
She asked them to write about meeting a stranger, "a sentence or two." She was cloying, smarmy. The students wrote boldly, finding timidity only when asked to share. Fair enough.
When she read it was without any real understanding of the words, which flowed smoothly but without resonance. Smugly she vaulted over lines as if they were static; all meaning was lost. "We never heard from him again." The last sentence was read with mock piety, crocodile tears welling. And then the students' turn.
You could hear a pin drop but not a human voice. They may have mouthed the words. This could be protest or nerves. Either way, time wasted, nothing gained.
Then comprehension questions, thrilless drudgery motivated by repercussion, hunched over oars and under a cat o'ninetails, rowing a battleship across the Aegean, threats and demands inspiring fear and loathing. No mutiny, though.