Thirteen

For years, physicists have pondered over Captain Methering's black hole eye. Where did it come from? Why has it not absorbed the rest of Methering himself into his murky depths? These are the questions I sought answers to when I hunted down the reclusive Methering.

Fully aware that this is a once in a lifetime occurrence, having this titan of a man with an eye that is more than nothingness directly in front of me, I pluck up the courage to ask him the question.

Naive, perhaps, but one that no one had dared ask.

"When did your eye become a black hole?"

The silent, stony man shuffles in his seat. He leans towards me and points a stout finger into the abyss inhabiting one side of his face,

"I were twelve. And some lad chucked a pencil at me."

"A pencil?"

"Yeah. But from the science museum, it were."