Chuck Schading

This piece was written for NYC Midnight’s 2024 250-Word Micro Fiction contest and received an Honorable Mention in the second round. The prompts were Honor (Genre) / Fixing a mistake (Action) / Crease (Word).

The tailor slowly walked along the tables in his dank basement workshop, his skilled hands tightly clasped behind his long slender back as he surveyed the day’s work. 

Twenty-five three-piece suits. All black. Crisp and perfect.

Except for one.

Even in the shadows, the tailor knew a flaw when he saw it. His father had demanded perfection, and now he demanded the same. 

“What … is this?” he asked, the thin burn mark that ran from his neck to his forehead wrinkling as he grimaced. 

He pulled a pair of slacks from a table and dangled them between two fingers like a carcass. 

“A double crease,” the tailor said, shaking his head scornfully. 

His assistants stood silently against the far wall, save for the sound of their shackles as they reflexively touched their own burn marks and what was left of missing fingers. 

It didn’t take long to suss out the offender, a pale-skinned chap with a puddle of piss at his feet.

“Put them on,” the tailor said, throwing the trousers at the man’s chest.

The tailor meanwhile, heated an iron in the kiln.

“I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said. “Get on the table.”

“One seam,” the tailor said as the iron touched down, the stench of fabric and flesh soon filling the room, “begins at the bottom and ends at the top.”

As always, he did not seem to hear the screams.

“Just like my father taught me,” he said. “Just as I teach you.”