Clashing Philosophies of the Dark Kind

Ominous shadows permeated every crevice of Whitmore University's ancient assembly hall, swallowing the dark aged wood panels and worn leather chairs in waves of inky darkness. A few ornate lamps valiantly tried to pierce the oppressive gloom that clung to the cavernous room like a choking fog.

Dr. Wolfgang Miles settled into his assigned seat, arranging his folders, note cards, and pens into an orderly configuration. He'd prepared for this until late into the previous evening, even avoiding the latest news headlines.

Across the long table, Dr. Rebecca Thompson sat ramrod straight, her icy pale gaze fixed on Miles with the warmth and compassion of a mechanical shark.

Miles offered a polite smile. Thompson's stony expression remained unchanged, her severe black suit and rich ruby red scarf giving her the air of a particularly stern Addams Family character – one who lectured on theoretical physics while enjoying dark poetry and existential philosophy for leisure.

Miles fancied Thompson saw him as far too soft – his tweed jacket and affectionate eyes exuding academic passion, not pretension or severity. Though Miles considered himself more honey than vinegar, Thompson looked like she subsisted solely on a diet of pure unfiltered vinegar. Probably an ultra-rare acidic balsamic, to match her brooding dark aesthetic.

Thompson had no notes or laptop; that was puzzling. Wolf made a mental reminder to start using his laptop. His assistants kept prodding, this will be year, he promised himself; change was something he needed to embrace as well.

Echoing voices presaged the university council members filing into the gallery and taking their seats. Miles noted dozens of mostly journalism students slip furtively into the observation area above, like mice stealing into a larder. Odd, since most undergrads avoided these excruciatingly dry and tedious grant funding debates unless armed with smart phone games and comically over-sized coffee cups. Their presence likely portended something dramatic brewing beneath Whitmore's genteel, staid surface. His curiosity was aroused.

Once assembled, the attendees sat in awkward silence under the weight of the heavy gloom. The Chancellor called the meeting to order, then explained the coin toss protocol to decide the presentation order.

Thompson chose heads with such glowering intensity, Miles thought she was opting to decapitate her rival rather than merely pick a coin face. The coin spun through the air, landing with a hollow thunk – tails. Thompson’s glare intensified into a look of such volcanic menace, Miles wondered if she was attempting to spontaneously develop heat vision to incinerate him on the spot. If looks could immolate, he would be a little pile of smoking tweed ashes.

The Chancellor gestured to Thompson. “You have the floor.”

Thompson stood abruptly. Her voice cut through the thick silence like a guillotine's blade. “Our students’ reading scores drop yearly under the plague of ‘modern’ techniques like phonics and semantics. These newfangled ideas have ruined pedagogy as we once knew it in the golden era of my childhood!” 

She continued her diatribe, insisting rote memorization and recital were the only true, valid, and effective teaching methods. One council member tried weakly interjecting a point about integrated phonics programs, but Thompson verbally decapitated him in two terse, cutting sentences.

“I will provide contradictory studies after reviewing my sources,” she concluded, in an icy tone brooking no further debate. After finishing her thorough excoriation of modern educational techniques, she took her seat with a thud that echoed ominously off the vaulted ceiling.

Miles rose calmly, hoping to radiate tranquility and gentle reason into the oppressive atmosphere. “While tradition and the classics are invaluable, refusing to adapt risks stagnation. My seminar will train teachers to evaluate diverse learners’ needs through psychology and neuroscience, enabling individualized instruction. With the right approach, every student can realize their full potential.”

The Chancellor leaned forward, steepling his fingers contemplatively. “Your previous seminar data is rather impressive, Dr. Miles. What new aspects might bolster your proposal for this literacy grant funding?”

“Two exceptional graduate students will assist me. Their empathy and communication skills are unparalleled.”

After fifteen minutes of thoughtful questions and discussions, the Chancellor ended the debate pending a final decision. As the crowd mingled, Miles made friendly conversation, while Thompson glared from the corner as if trying to, once again, spew heat vision and scorch her rival. Their contrasting energies electrified the atmosphere like an oncoming thunderstorm.

During the recess, Miles escaped the claustrophobic gloom of the hall to clear his head in the open breezeway. There, he came across a disturbing headline on a student’s tablet – scandalous accusations against Thompson! Misuse of grant funds, leaked videos of her and the headmaster recipient of the funds in leather with whips and chains, FBI involvement...Miles’ shock multiplied tenfold. This certainly portended a dramatic twist in today’s events!

Upon returning to the assembly hall, the mood had grown even more somber and morbid. Even the University President had now entered the room, his bespectacled face grim as an undertaker. After a positively solemn silence, the President announced, “We have unanimously decided to award the grant to Dr. Miles.”

Enthusiastic applause broke out, quickly silenced by the President’s raised hand. “There is an elephant in the room we must address. Given Dr. Thompson’s alleged serious indiscretions, she is hereby suspended indefinitely pending a full investigation.” 

As Thompson erupted into vitriolic protests, two guards firmly escorted her away like asylum orderlies removing a particularly violent patient. Miles was saddened to see a colleague fall so far into the shadows – though not entirely shocked given the red flags in her disposition he had observed over the years as a practicing psychologist; the dark triad of narcissism, psychopathy, and machiavellianism.

This grant had new meaning now, Miles realized. Education was a light holding back the encroaching darkness of ignorance and corruption. The path ahead was uncertain, but Miles had faith in human potential, however deeply buried. With wisdom and care, even the most fragile spark could shine brightly and illuminate the shadows.

Progress meant boldly stepping into the unknown future, no matter how uncomfortable or foreboding. Though Thompson clung desperately to tradition, true wisdom meant adapting to new eras and new knowledge. The light of education was humanity’s best hope against the looming darkness.

Miles gathered his materials, feeling the full weight of this revelation settle upon his shoulders. As he exited the imposing Gothic assembly hall, glimmers of warm sunlight pierced through the dissipating gloom, illuminating the way forward. The future awaited.