The Other Dixon – Cosmic Horror Monthly

By Shawn Frazier

From #CHM 69 March 2026

As summer approached, nature flourished over the dead city’s concrete.

Dixon Hallford stood among the West Harlem MTA bus riders, waiting for Noah’s bus to arrive. I need a way to work from home. To relax, he imagined himself beneath a waterfall, like Salto Sao Francisco in Brasil, where he wanted frosty water to flow over the rocky cliff to cleanse his body and spirit. He read somewhere that wind rips through the water and vaporizes it into fog. Dixon’s escape to Brasil wasn’t just a change of locale; he needed to lift the weight of the city off him and find a new identity. And find his long-lost stuffed animal, Hugo.

The bus driver, Noah, wasn’t known to drive when people evaded their fare, but today, he didn’t seem to care. Dixon and the other riders squeezed in through the back door, followed by a student dressed in a Kangaroo costume and one like a Panda. The Panda snorted beneath the weather-proof hood to the Kangaroo, and they both turned to stare at Dixon. As the bus took off, in the back, someone played a samba guitar in a calm, syncopated groove that made the riders sway.

A voice-activated door commanded riders to clear the entrance, “Move, or the bus won’t!” Noah added. Once shut, he felt caged. Two passengers who couldn’t fit through opened the top windows to squeeze inside, legs dangled as the bus drove downhill. One sported a silver boot; the second had a white cotton sock with a toe poking out. The passengers covered their noses or searched for a used-up face mask that they hid in a purse or coat pocket. In a year, I’ll leave this city. All of this will mean nothing.

On St. Nicholas Avenue, the bus stopped in front of a white van. Long ago, when Dixon became a teacher, the sunlight filtered his home, waking him with joy, so eager to ignite the minds of young hearts with literature. Twenty-five years later, Dixon sought to escape his school, where a storm brewed in the hallways and classrooms. As he walks into his school, the air outside hums for him to leave.

The Kangaroo pulled out a gold badge with his make-believe paws; fair evaders scattered like roaches. They rushed out the back door. A woman in a waitress’s uniform grabbed her baby wrapped in a blue blanket and left the stroller behind. As Dixon pushed through the crowd and exited the doors, he overheard the Kangaroo snarled, ‘You can’t run forever, Dixon.’ The words sent a shiver down his spine.

Dixon zig-zagged across the street as the Kangaroo chased him on all fours. “Halt in the name of the law!” the Kangaroo panted, bouncing from one car hood to another. As Dixon quickened his pace, he could feel the weight of the Kangaroo’s gaze on his back. His heart pounded, and he knew he had to act fast. Heads in hair bonnets and durags stuck out from open windows of rent-stabilized apartments. Used shoes and old sneakers were thrown at the Garoo. A rusted pot landed before Dixon’s feet while he stopped breathing; a left hand clutched his chest as he struggled to inhale. Behind him, the Kangaroo pounced toward Dixon, who gasped and turned to face his pursuer. He had it! He held his hands to surrender just as the costume officer crossed a green traffic light. Cars’ wheels screeched and made a loud thump. Bystanders crowded around the Kangaroo to record the officer’s last breath on camera.

Dixon headed home whistling as sirens and car horns muddled his flute.

* * *

Once, the doctor prescribed Blockade for Dixon, but he didn’t want an intruder in his head. Besides, when he missed a dose, all his suppressed worries returned, and the pills took two weeks to work. Whenever positive thoughts struggled, Dixon imagined he had Hugo, his stuffed childhood teddy bear. Hugo made him feel better; his soft, fluffy fur made Dixon embrace him upon mere sight. Hugo would sing a song before bedtime so that he could relax. Dixon, Dixon, be brave and strong. March through the trouble, no matter how tall. Big and small, trouble may follow, but you must be courageous and not act like a coward. Those cuddly croons stayed with him for the whole day. He hoped and prayed someone found him. If so, they will be holding Hugo for Dixon. Wouldn’t you? His hands relaxed and hung loosely beside him as they were typically closed-fisted whenever he strolled outside.

As Dixon descended on Broadway, he spotted FBI fliers taped to a lamppost. The poster made him feel like he was staring into a mirror: The suspect was between 30 and 45, six feet tall, slim, with brown eyes, skin, and short locks. Dixon yanked his hood over his head and turned into a lifeless statue. An onlooker beside him said, “This neighborhood would be much better once they find him.” Before Dixon could answer, the older man marched to the subway station on 145th Street and Broadway. Dixon followed, for he, too, needed to get away.

At the foot of the stairs, he heard a dispute. Officers exited an unmarked van and rushed down into the station. Upstairs, a uniformed Tiger held the van’s door open. “They’ll come after you later,” the handcuffed suspect snarled to Dixon while being escorted to the truck. Digital posters advertising movies, cell phones, and new ten-seater SUVs were replaced with images of the runaway bandit.

“I hope he is the one,” huffed a fair evader in a red, white, and blue jumpsuit jumping the turnstile.

* * *

Dixon shifted and sorted the outfits on his closet hangers before settling on an all-white suit. Who could cause evil by wearing this? he thought in the dimly lit closet. Several stacks of clothes and shoes sat on his bedroom floor in black garbage bags. Whoever wears these may be turned into a target. Timberland’s boots, baseball hats, jeans, and hoodies were all tossed out.

After dressing in his pristine suit, he took his Bible, which he rarely read, and went to church even though it wasn’t Sunday. He strolled in a city of shadowy people—his fragility clothed in strength. Downhill toward Abyssinia Baptist Church, he saw hints of anger and fear in people’s eyes. He smiled, but they frowned as he walked past. If I had Hugo, then I would be much happier. Dixon wanted Hugo, believing he fizzled away his problems. Hugo had furred the color of wheat bread.

Just as he started to cross, an appetizing aroma came from the wind: a hearty stew of black beans and pork stirred with tomatoes, cabbage, and carrots. Once, he remembered eating a dish in Bahia just like it; his tongue salivated from the thought. People pointed their cell phones at him as he walked. He turned to go another way and reached the next street corner when the light turned green. A couple stepped beside him as he waited and watched cars speed by. They laughed and talked, but as soon as they saw Dixon, they fell silent and turned their necks. Dixon swung around to say, “Good morning. I’m heading to Abyssinian.”

“Oh, are you? How nice,” the woman grunted while not making eye contact. She took the strap of her purse and crossed it over her chest.

“Well, have a wonderful day,” Dixon saw the traffic light change. He smiled and walked off but noticed the couple were still waiting on the corner.

“Report him! Someone will claim him if we don’t!” the woman squeaked. Dixon hurried off again. Drones flew overhead and announced: “Last Sunday, a man wearing all white stole the church offering during an early church service. This man is dangerous. He carries a Bible, smiles, and looks pleasant. We believe this man is the Kangaroo Killer. If you give info that leads to his capture, you can win a $100,000 reward, plus a year’s worth of tickets to any Broadway show in the city, including “Jesus Christ Superstar.” You may call…” Dixon imagined himself in a prison cell with inmates in orange jumpsuits.

* * *

“Who would think someone is dangerous in this outfit?

As he waits for the elevator, Dixon sings, “Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear Hugo… Where are you? Whenever I hug you, I feel good.” Dixon imagined Hugo, lost as a child in Brasil, would be waiting for him at the beach. Dixon rehearsed his apology for Hugo. Once on, he rides down with a neighbor. Ms. McRae is the oldest tenant, and the landlords have tried for years to get her out and turn her apartment into a condo. Harassing letters were sent to no avail. Eventually, the owners and lawyers became sick, and she outlived them all.

“Why, Mr. Hallford,” Dixon’s neighbor asked, “What are you doing with that outfit?” He was dressed in a cap and gown; the tassel hung over his face. Today, as always, Ms. McRae carried her brown doll in a pink blanket. He often saw her walk outside and sit alone on a park bench with it. The doorman shared that she had done this for years and explained to Dixon why. Since then, he has smiled at her and pretended the doll was real.

“Oh, because it reminds me of the day, I felt the most joy,” Dixon smiled. “How is she today?” he asked.

“Very well. Napping, as usual.” She scanned Dixon up and down. “I must say… You are so well dressed in that cap and gown. Our men are wearing their pants down their asses. In my time, men never left home without a belt. If our young men dressed more upstanding, they wouldn’t be involved in trouble.”

“Believe me, I get the same problems. Clothes don’t change someone’s beliefs!”

“Yes, but I know people will treat you respectfully if you are well-dressed. Remember, when others look at you, they look at all of us the same.”

“We are too concerned with others’ perceptions,” Dixon said pityingly. Just like me. “We live in a world of illusions.”

“We are not concerned enough about representation,” she roared. On her left shoulder was a small shopping bag, from which she withdrew a milk-filled bottle. Dixon heard slurps as he watched the bottle top placed over its lips. The doll emptied the bottle clean. Once done, the bottle was put back into the bag. As they both stepped outside, a gray cloud hung over the city.

Before they left, Ms. McRae put the baby doll inside the bag, “I don’t want her getting wet. See those clouds. At any time, rain may come.”

Dixon crossed the crowded, noisy street to where a new Brasilin coffee shop called Curto Café opened. Photos of mountains, waterfalls, Christ the Redeemer, and a carnival decorated the walls. That song from off the bus danced in his head; the beat and tempo quickened. He began tapping his feet and clapping his hands.

“Next!” Dixon jolted back to reality. He ordered a cup of coffee and spotted a wall-hung flat screen showing the news in Portuguese. Dixon read the English captions: “A Columbia University alum stole over 5 million dollars of equipment while wearing a cap and gown. Authorities believe this down-on-his-luck alum couldn’t get a job after graduation. A $200,000 reward is offered for info, with a full four-year scholarship.” Dixon took off his cap, stuffed it under his arm, and paid for his hot cup of coffee to leave when this burly bearded man stepped in front of the door.

“Excuse me, please,” Dixon said.

“You are not going anywhere,” growled the man. The police are coming, and I will get my reward. I’m promised a washer and dryer as a bonus,” the burly man said. He moved closer to Dixon’s face.

Another person screeched, “And I can get free public transportation for twenty years if I report you! My bonus.”

“Is that all you got offered?” someone barked at the counter with a cell phone. They promised me I could be Mayor. My bonus.” In Dixon’s head, a volcano went off. Dixon imagined blood flowing over the molten rocks. Quickly, he padded his pocket and felt the bulge of his phone and keys, which wouldn’t be enough to protect him. His hand tingled, and to his surprise, he splashed his coffee on the man’s face and bolted away.

* * *

Today, Dixon wore his fastest, springiest sneakers and strolled down St Nicholas Avenue, where gentrifiers now own family Brownstones. He carried a small backpack of clothes to change like a superhero.

Dixon went into a toy store, Children Dream of Forever, to pick out a stuffed animal like Hugo. Some thought Hugo’s eyes looked mean, with their squint and arched eyebrows. “No,” Dixon politely told his parents; his bear’s expression was meant to chase away worries. When Hugo smiled, he showed his parents, but they dismissed this as a different stuffed animal he played with. Dixon buzzed the bell of the display window, and a sales rep came with a set of keys.

“I’m here to pick up my teddy bear,” Dixon Hallford said, holding his digital receipt that bore his first and last name. The sales rep removed the brown Teddy Bear from the bulletproof display case, which she cradled.

A gold necklace hung around the cub’s neck. The furry head and limbs could rotate and converse. The teddy bear impressed Dixon, even if it was meant “For a Young Prince.” Like Hugo, this was promised to develop strategies for dealing with life. While still in its box, the stuffed toy didn’t shake, for a thin plastic cord wrapped its waist.

“Isn’t it beautiful? The cub is still asleep, so try not to wake him until you get home. Have you decided on a name?” The sales rep stared into the Teddy Bear’s emerald eyes. For a moment, she looked like she was in a daze. Dixon asked the sales rep, Felica, for the doll’s name several times, and she stayed fixated on the cub’s two green stones.

“Is the Bear called Shondro?” he asked a new question. She awakened like a sleeping beauty from a kiss, “That’s the name of the company that makes it. Also, you must buy a pacifier, a bottle of milk, warm blankets, and a carriage. Be sure to sign up for a stuffed animal repair plan—like health care for dolls. The box forgot to mention that these items are not included.” The rep turned her head towards the door.

“Also, you need to start thinking of the kind of school you want him to attend.” The rep’s monitor beeped, and a panicked face replaced the joy she spoke with. By the store’s entrance, Dixon heard a scuffle erupt. A casually dressed man acted erratically; he flapped his arms and shouted at security, who bolted out the door. Like Dixon, he wore khakis, a white button shirt, and loafers.

In the back of the 40,000 sq. ft Toy Store, lay a Gingerbread House, where everyone sheltered. Once inside, the cub whispered to Dixon to get out. An older woman, the owner, sat by a fireplace and prepared a batch of cookies as they all rushed inside. Each one was given a chair and made to sit around her; she retold how two abandoned children in the woods attacked her after she welcomed them at her home. After they ate her warm-cooked meal of baked chicken, potatoes, and carrots, they complained of the bland taste of the meat. Potatoes were overcooked, and the carrots weren’t orange. In a hooded sheet, she functioned as if it was a robe that covered her from head to toe. She got up and gave Dixon a hard stare—with a pair of orange eyes, and her face remained hidden. An evil eye shot arrows at Dixon as she placed four huge water pots on a wood stove in her gloved hands. She went into a faraway, unlit room at the back of the dwelling and shut the door. They left when they heard her footsteps fading away.

* * *

I wish they would leave me alone. At home, Dixon noticed his new toy smelled of caramelized vanilla, toasted macadamia, and coconut. On his lap, his Teddy sat while they watched the evening news. A small coffee table was littered with bright, smiling faces. One photo depicted the sun’s light worldwide—images of outdoor blue oceans, where mammals had once thrived. In the happier times of this world, Dixon used to see if he could get joy. Books were beside a worn-out sofa he sat on. Over the windows, thick curtains were drawn closed.

“Breaking News!”

“Here we go again,” Dixon said to his flat-screen TV while his new nameless companion sat beside him. A news anchor in a suit and tie said, “The NYC Bandit strikes again! While wearing a face mask, he held up a toy store when kids, ages 6-9, were in the middle of a sing-along of ‘William Wants a Doll.’ The incident occurred at Children Are Forever, a toy store in Midtown Manhattan. The semi-masked intruder ransacked a register. Once the robber got his cash, a shopper strolled inside. The Father and his daughter, who cradled a teddy bear, were told to go with the others. The masked man took the girl’s teddy bear and the store’s cash. A $100,000 reward is offered for his capture with free Uber rides for a year.

“The suspect could even be awarded the money. If they turn themselves in!”

He looked into his bear’s eyes and searched for what to do. As he hugged his stuffed bear, an automated voice spoke:

“When you do wrong, you hurt yourself.”

Yes, Dixon muttered to himself, I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. I’m the bandit they are looking for. I must confess. It was me all this time. Shondro began to sing, “We Are the World; We Are the Ones Who Make a Brighter Day, So Do the Right Thing,” Dixon changed into a sweatshirt, sneakers, and jeans and went to the police, who took him straight to the courthouse.

* * *

At 600 Centre Street, the courtroom was packed with news reporters. Behind the wood bench, an American Flag hung from a pole. Seated, Dixon counted to see if there were fifty stairs. The attendees stiffened as the judge entered the room, inaudible words trembling out of their mouths.

“Dixon Hallford, please rise,” the bailiff ordered in his black polish shoes and navy-blue uniform.

“Your honor. I’m here in good faith. I’m the man you look for. I’m the one who has disgraced this city.” Overnight, Dixon stayed in a jail cell, his haggard face and bloodshot eyes glazed up at the judge on her bench.

“You and hundreds of other Black men think that. Making false statements in a police investigation is a federal crime,” with her eyeglasses slunk on her nose, the Judge eyed Dixon with pity.

“They lie. I’m the man you want, “ Dixon affirmed, his head held high.

“Mr. Hallford, we know of the rewards being offered,” the Judge said in a monotone voice.

“I don’t want a cent of it,” Dixon howled as his lawyer pulled him to sit back down and be quiet.

“It is unfortunate to see a defendant—especially a man of your credentials and income—here. My court obtained your records—you are not about this life! If you return and repeat these false statements, we will make an example of you,” the judge retorted in a black robe and waved her hand erratically for Dixon and his attorney to leave.

“I’m sure I’ve done something,” he whined as his attorney pulled Dixon to go.

“What else can I do?” Outside, Dixon begged his counselor to listen, but his attorney marched off in a huff as the doors swung open and closed with new defendants. On mosaic tiles, his attorney walked to the elevator.

When Dixon Halford left the courthouse, he watched Black men in white suits, some wearing khaki pants and button-up white shirts, enter. A crowd of caps and gowns marched up the court’s stairs as if to receive a diploma; they joined the line of defendants who waited before the courthouse.

“I came to turn myself in,” someone in a cap and gown told a news crew. With a hop in his step, Dixon bounced to where Noah waited behind the wheel. After the week’s events, he sat back, flipped open his cell, and booked a trip to Brazil. While the bus was driving off, he gradually fell asleep, and the sounds of sirens and car horns turned into water walls.

An idiotic tune danced in his head. At first, it was silly, but then it turned into sanity. The beat grew into a symphony of Agogô, Cuicas, Bandolim, Caxixi, Berimbau, and Atabaque instruments that produced a harmonious sound. When the tune faded, Dixon awoke and realized he no longer rode on a bus in Manhattan. Noah was no longer the driver. Dixon noticed he wore shorts, a tank top, and sandals rather than a suit he wore to court. Beside him was a Teddy Bear,

“Go and start a new life, Dixon,” the stuffed animal said. A young boy ran back on the bus, grabbed his stuffed animal from Dixon, said, “Brigade,” smiled, and left. At the back door towered a Black woman in a snow-colored blouse, her skirt painted in yellow, blue, and green—colors that matched her head wrap; she exhaled a gasp of relief.

Outside, music played a discordant off-key beat. Dixon followed the music and noticed people looked nothing like New York. Buildings were shorter, and people sat at tables with sun umbrellas beside the blue ocean. He asked someone, “Where am I?” Instead, he said, “Onde Estou?”

* * *

Shawn Frazier is an African American writer who writes speculative and experimental fiction that explores transformation and identity. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing and is a member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association (SFWA). His work has appeared in FIYAH Magazine, Mizna, Flapper House, and several other literary journals. Shawn is based in New York City and teaches AP English, while also mentoring emerging writers. Currently, he is completing a short story collection: Doppelgangers, Dolls, and Dummies. You can contact him at his website, www.shawnwritesweird.com, or on Bluesky@afrosurreal.bsky.social.

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