My teacher exploded.
She was shouting at one of my classmates, Brendan, when her hair started smoking. There was steam coming out of her nostrils and ears. A crimson shade was crawling across her ravaged features. Her fists were clenching and unclenching. It reminded me of a time when I sprained my wrist and the physiotherapist said to squeeze and release the stress ball. She looked as if she was about to burst. And then she did. With a poof of smoke and a gigantic POP she was gone. All that was left was a pile of greyish-black ash.