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Saturday, August 22, 2026
Wednesday, September 23, 2020
[Following is an official OnlineBookClub.org review of "Dream State" by Charles R Hinckley.]
4 out of 4 stars
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When August was almost thirty years of age, he started experiencing intense dreams of people dying. Initially, he merely thought they were nightmares. Then, a dream about the death of a young woman named Emma began repeating. Because they were incredibly vivid and believable, he started looking for the place of her death, discovered it, and later was able to find her. Regrettably, she thought he was creepy and didn’t believe him. Sadly, dreams of her soon stopped because of her murder. This dream was followed by one of a man named Carrillo, who was observed dying from a car accident. August tracked him down; instead of listening and using the information to save himself, Carrillo threatened to injure him. A short time afterward, Carrillo died in the foreseen car accident.
August is tired of no one believing him and being unable to alter the outcome of his dreams. Realizing he possesses an ability for finding people and wanting to utilize his gift constructively, August decides to become a “Psychic Detective.” Subsequently, he places an ad in the paper. His first client is a creepy, morbidly obese hoarder by the name of Frank, who had something tragic happen in his childhood and has been haunted since. He is hoping August can dream about that event and figure out what to do to get his life back on track. Then, Emma’s sister, Carla, requests his help in apprehending Emma’s killer since the police are getting nowhere. Although she is gorgeous and August feels drawn to her, she is not entirely forthcoming with information. With his friend Mill, a retired computer tech millionaire, August begins trying to solve both cases. However, there is a lot more to being a detective than he had realized, including dangerous situations.
At 301 pages, Dream State: The Sleeping Detective Series Book One by Charles R. Hinckley is a thrilling and suspenseful crime novel with aspects of paranormal activity, romance, and humor mixed in. The author’s prose is highly descriptive and easy to understand. Although the first book in the series, it is a standalone novel with the salient points answered satisfactorily by the end. It transports readers into August’s world and holds them captivated as he solves his cases, frequently making rookie mistakes. The suspense represented my favorite aspect of the book as the novel kept me tense and spellbound.
The character development is superb in the novel. Because it is narrated from August’s first-person point of view, we are able to understand his thinking and motives. Although unsure of himself and frequently rushing into things without a clear plan, he has the best of intentions. His loyal friend Mill supports him every step of the way, even being willing to endanger himself; however, this may partially be because he is lonely, bored, and craves excitement. Their humorous repartee lightens the mood.
Because August wasn’t typically given the luxury of knowing the names of the people in his dreams, he assigned them nicknames like “Skateboard Kid” and “Motorcycle Jacket.” Most of the time, these were not disparaging. Frank’s name was known; nonetheless, August nicknamed him “Fat Man,” though not to his face. This was unnecessary and derogatory, and there are people who will be offended by it. It was one of the few things I disliked about the book.
I encountered a few minor grammatical and punctuation errors, which were not distracting; it was most likely professionally edited. Therefore, Dream State: The Sleeping Detective Series Book One achieves a rating of four out of four stars. It doesn’t deserve anything less because it is also intriguing and difficult to put down. It is enthusiastically recommended to readers who enjoy paranormal novels with suspense and mystery. Frequent profanities, some violence, and occasional sex scenes (not overly explicit) are encountered in the story. Subsequently, it is unsuitable for children and sensitive readers.
******
Dream State
View: on Bookshelves | on Amazon
Thursday, September 3, 2020
The Lucid
Spider
This is the spider I saw on the ceiling this morning. I drew
him in ink and took this photo to show you what he looked like. I’m calling him
Gray Ghost. He appeared above my head and walked toward the bedpost before
fading away. I closed my eyes and quickly reopened them, to see the spider back
in original spot. It walked toward the wall, again, as if on repeat. My first
thought; It’s not real. Probably a lucid dream.
Lucid dreaming is when you become aware you are dreaming and
sometimes even begin to actively control your dream. (Comes in handy with
certain types of dreams, but I won’t elaborate) Although, each time I become
aware I am dreaming and try to control my lucid dream, it quickly evaporates
into the ether and I awaken. Apparently, lucid dreamers have a more highly
developed area of the brain that allows for self-reflection. If what I’ve been
thinking lately can be called self-reflection (rather that self-deprecation),
then yes, I would lean toward this notion. I tend to self-reflect quite a bit. Not
because I’m self-absorbed, as much as the fact that I am a writer, a thinker
and an artist. You must think to write and paint.
However, upon some research, I realized this was probably a
Hypnagogic Hallucination. I’ve been having that type of hallucination for
years. Several times I have awakened to find a dark figure standing at the edge
of my bed, and although I can’t see a face, the figure is apparently staring at
me, as if this ungodly creature was wanting something unfathomable.
Another particularly vivid hallucination came after playing
a video game entitled, Red Barron, a WWI bi-plane aerial combat game. I awoke
to observe a small red bi-plane fly into my bedroom and come straight at me. It
was so tangibly real, I sat up in bed, threw a pillow at it, and yelled, “Get
out!” My wife did not understand, nor appreciate my reaction.
The thing that’s strange about the spider hallucination
though, was after closing and re-opening my eyes, Gray ghost reappeared, in the
exact same spot on the ceiling as before and began its short, spidery journey
toward the wall. I know it wasn’t real, because of the way it looked. It was a
ghost. A large, Gray Ghost of a spider, crawling slowly across the ceiling. And
yes, it was as creepy as it sounds.
Why a spider, I ask myself? Why not something else, like a
flower or a beetle? I have no hatred or fear of spiders, beyond that of any
normal person. I haven’t been bitten by a black widow or nuclear infused
spider. I haven’t been seeing them in the yard or the house, lately. And yet, I
saw the damn thing in my strange half-sleep state. So next time, if there is a
next time, when it comes, I’ll be ready. I’ve been training myself to lucid
dream. Part of which is to remind yourself (if you can, it’s quite difficult)
that you are dreaming. If Gray Ghost spider comes back, I’ll be ready. I’ll
remember to remind myself to fall back into a lucid dream and then I’ll kill
the little bastard! I wonder if Gray Ghost spiders leave any splatter?
Friday, August 21, 2020
SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL
INFINITY 7
Now on Audible, Amazon Kindle
CUSTOMER REVIEW FROM AUDIBLE.COM
Well Wrought Hallucinatory Space Fiction!
"I greatly enjoyed listening to Charles R. Hinckley's
novel INFINITY 7, a novel that falls loosely in the territory of the
near-future science fiction of films like 2001 and the original SOLARIS.
Hinckley creates a convincing world, with an effective, almost
mundane, space travel scenario that suddenly goes wildly haywire with startling
bursts of Philip K. Dick-like hallucinatory imagery. His alien concepts are
very visual... and, well, alien.
The initial chapters stretch out a bit too long, I'd say, but once the protagonist, John Collins, gets into space, the tale rock and rolls in earnest.
The near-future tech is convincing and well visualized. I
especially enjoyed Collins' dealings with AI and holographic technology, which
add some humor to the story without being overplayed, in particular his issues
with an errant floating video camera.
Nate Marble's reading of the novel is strong, maintaining a
good pace while avoiding overly facile vocal characterizations, which I hate in
audiobooks.
Overall all, I strongly recommend INFINITY 7."
Tuesday, August 18, 2020
Psychic Detective Novel, Dream State is "funny", and sharp, with "great characters."
https://www.amazon.com/Dream-State-Sleeping-Detective-Book-ebook/dp/B01M5CO8UC/ref=mt_kindle?_encoding=UTF8&me=
Reviewed in the United States
I quite enjoyed Charles R. Hinckley’s novel, Dream State.
"The psychic detective genre, in general, is a tricky one, a
mash-up somewhere between Raymond Chandler and Doctor Strange. Hinckley pulls
it off by writing well. He grounds his characters solidly in a New York I could
recognize, and gives them realistic, often humorous dialog. This makes the
fantastical excursions into August Chase’s pre-cognitive “dream state” more
compelling. On top of that, the writing is extremely visual, forcefully
propelling Chase through a complex series of interrelated encounters in both
this world and the next, and bringing it all to a satisfying resolution. It’s a
book worth your attention."
Sunday, July 19, 2020
Infinity 7 now on audible!
Editorial Review
"Powerful and compelling, "Infinity 7" by Charles
R. Hinckley is a riveting psychological sci-fi adventure that readers won't
soon forget! When suspicious
communication comes from the Metis 3 Space Station requesting a team to
investigate malfunctions and the possibility of alien life forms, astronaut and
astrophysicist John Collins knows he is headed back to space. Developer of the Metis Space Program, Collins
has dedicated his professional career to this project, at great personal cost, and
will do whatever it takes to keep the funding flowing for this research. Discovery
of alien spores found in soil samples have been mishandled by Forrest, one of
the techs, putting the entire station in danger of contamination. Strange behavior from the crew and the mainframe
computer system suggest alien forces have taken over as an entranced crew
member is determined to destroy the space station. Fighting hallucinations and madness caused by
exposure to the spore toxins, John Collins is in for the fight of his life and
the future of the earth. This story is a
fantastic read! I really enjoyed the
writing - Hinckley has a talent for creating vivid, colorful, life-like
descriptions in every paragraph, and not a word is wasted. The plot-line is
complex without being overwhelming; the various layers of the story are
sophisticated and round out the entire story as a whole. The author's imagination seems limitless as
the creativity displayed in the scenes and the settings compel the reader to
plow through the pages..."
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
Rusty Bullets are Just as Deadly
12 Bullets
That night he drew up near a large pine tree and sat with his
back against it. He was too tired to start a fire, but knew he must. As he
gathered dead leaves and straw in the area around him, he noticed a piece of
broken glass. He held it up to the setting sun and saw it sparkle, a blue hue
in the sunset. He thought about the time he’d loaded small rocks and glass into
his musket, because he had no more balls to load but still had powder and
wadding. The glass killed a boy up close. And he once again saw the face of the
boy as he took the shot. His stomach turned over thinking about it. He put the
glass in the small cartridge box on his belt, just in case he ran out of lead.
The nine cartridges he carried were still intact and he was glad of it. The
three load in his revolver made twelve. A dozen rounds to defend his life. He
didn’t want to fully load his pistol for fear he’d waste one or two shots.
Better to wait and load them if he had to.
The fire was small and smoky. He had nothing to eat but
venison jerky, and he drank an extra swallow of water to stave off hunger
pangs.
He thought about burying coals and sleeping on them, but the
ground had too many pine needles and he worried it would burn him in the night.
The wind had picked up at sunset, then died down just as the chill air began to
descend from the hills. It was a wet air and soon he was sitting in fog. The
yellow glow of the fire surrounded by fog.
A feeling on loneliness ran through him as he stared at the
flames. The face of the boy he’d shot came to him, blood spattered, half torn by
glass. Then, the many battles he’d been a part of raged in his head. Each
memory, a small snippet of moving images, like galloping on the back of a
spooked horse, speeding through his mind’s eye: Running through the lines at
the battle at The Wilderness. Trees exploding with shot. Dead men lining the
trail as he ran over them. Blood and gut-spattered trees.
He stood up and paced, wishing the images away. He held his
hand on the sap covered bark of the pine and smelled the pitch on his hands.
His fingers stuck together with the pine pitch, but the smell made it better,
brought him out of his memories.
He stoked the fire, laid out his bedroll, then rested his
head on a small sack stuffed with his extra clothes. He fell asleep seeing the
boy’s face as he’d died, cold and lifeless. Then he dreamed of his yellow haired
girl, Jilly. She was soft and gentle and had a straight smile. She stood in a brown
grass field, in the summer sun. Her whispers caressed his parched lips.
Jilly wanted what he thought all pretty girls want. A good
husband, a home and children. A man to come home and take care of the family
after a hard day’s work. And he had a mind to give her just that. The thing he
remembered most was her soft smell and the touch of smooth skin. Soft as butter,
and smelled of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It calmed him,
that smell. Her lips were the color of wine when you mixed it with water and
held it up to drink. He’d lost her exactly three weeks and two days ago. His
Jilly. She’d left town suddenly, and under mysterious circumstances. As far as
he was concerned, she was kidnaped. Witnesses saw it. Bad men took her by force
and rode west. He’d been on her trail ever since.
Holding his bedroll in his arms, her in his arms, he was
finally able to doze off.
*** ***
That night, the Wolves came into camp. He couldn’t figure why
they didn’t shoot him dead, but instead, they accepted his nervous invitation
to chew some jerky. There was six of them. Bad men. He knew they were bad the
minute they approached. Good men don’t come at you in waves, sending the
kindest looking one first. Good men don’t scare you by the look in their eyes. Dead
men reflected in those eyes.
It was the Tall Man who walked into camp first.
A shadow slowly came out of the foggy wood. A black mass.
Then he stepped into the light, and Brett thought he was staring at Abraham
Lincoln’s ghost. He wore the same long coat, top hat and beard, and had the
same wrinkled, worn-out face.
The Tall Man removed his stove-top hat and held it in his
hands, a dull twinkle in his eye. “Can you spare any food, mister? Been on the
trail for a while.”
Brett held a hand on his revolver, but the Tall Man had a slow,
kindly look about him, so he left it by the tree.
The Tall Man continued. “Yes sir, I seem to recall a time on
the trail I helped a man and his son. They were half-near starved and cold as a
block of ice in sawdust. I saw that in San Francisco. Big city. Ice in sawdust.
Have you seen that type of ice, sir? They say it’s the coldest.”
There was a rustling in the bushes and a horse whinnied.
“Who’s that?” Brett asked.
Slowly the men appeared in the camp, legs spread apart, hands
on their weapons.
“Just a few compadres. Drawn to the warmth of your fire. No
anointing need be.”
A small man in buckskins stepped closer. “Shut your
bone-box.”
The Tall Man bowed slightly and placed the hat upon his head.
Brett wanted to reach for the revolver, but it was too late.
“That one there cuts the long bow. Pay no mind, neither.”
The small man looked around the camp, like he was checking to see if anything
was out of sorts. He nodded and said, “We got rum. What you got for trade?”
Brett said, “Not much.”
“What food you got?”
I got jerky. I’m just out of mystery bags. Ate the last for supper.”
“Month of Sundays since I ate a good jerky. What ‘er they?”
“Venison.”
“That’s a good taste. Mind if we join yah?”
The men walked into the light of the fire and Brett saw
there was too many for it to end well for him. He held out the pouch of jerky.
The Small Man took it and smiled, a nearly toothless grin. He chewed on a
piece, grabbed two more and passed the bag to the Tall Man, who grabbed a fist
full and passed it on. By the time they were done, there was nothing left and
the bag was ripped out. Small Man handed the bag back and smiled. Brett noticed
him staring at his cavalry hat by the tree.
“That’s tasty, right there. Got coffee?”
“Nope.”
“Beans?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then what else you got in that bread bag? Don’t want
no hard-bread. Had enough of that to last.”
Brett frowned. “I’d be happy with some hard-bread. I was
expecting that jerky to last me a while.”
“You got any shot?”
“Just for my own use.”
“Share some.”
“I need my shot.”
“I don’t give a fart what you need.” They stared at each
other. Brett felt the blood rise in his face. “You need yer bag of bones healthy,
yah?” A few of the men took a step forward. Brett slowly nodded. “Then we do
this my way, the friendly way, or we break yer bones. Now, give me yer shot.”
Brett handed over his cartridge box. The Small Man counted
the contents.
“Two, four, six, seven…nine. That’s it?”
Brett nodded. Small Man took Brett’s Spencer repeating rifle
and slung it over his shoulder. “You got any coin?”
“No. And please don’t take my rifle.”
“Please? Search him, if you please!” Small Man laughed.
Tall Man grabbed Brett. Two others went through his clothes.
They found the five silver dollars he’d saved and had stashed inside his breast
pocket. Another two men searched the rest of his belongings. When they were
done and had everything they wanted, they mounted their horses and rode away,
not saying a word.
Brett stood by the fire and collected himself. They’d taken
his Colt Bowie knife, his coin and his Spencer Repeating Rifle. He could kill them,
one by one, and vowed to get his things back. He wondered why they hadn’t just
slit his throat, then he remembered Small Man looking at his cavalry hat. A
veteran maybe?
After a while, Brett sat back by the tree and brooded. He
felt hollow. Violated. Like he’d been punched sideways when not looking. The
thieves were long gone, having been on horseback. Brett had a feeling he knew
where they’d go, though. The only town within a few miles was Collins. Best to
get in a few hours rest. They’d left his bedroll and his clothes in a heap. He
gathered them up into a bed and after a while nodded off.
Daybreak came quickly and Brett awoke with a start. A tree
branch snapped nearby. He sat up and listened. An animal walked in the leaves.
Could have been a squirrel or something larger. Brett pulled out the Colt
Revolver he’d kept hidden by the tree and cocked the hammer. He was glad they
didn’t find his Colt. It had been with him since his darkest days in the war.
Rode into battle with it in his left hand, the right being the horse’s reins.
He’d shot men dead with that pistol. And as sick as he was of killing, now he
would do it again, so help him almighty.
Brett stood by the tree and stared out at the trail. The
Tall Man stood not ten-feet away, clutching his side. Blood covered the back of
his hand, and he appeared near falling.
*** ***
Small Man’s name was Roscoe Hunter, and he didn’t like weak
men. He’d seen his share of cowards in the war. Turn tail runners, he called ‘em. But that man giving up his
Spencer last night, he could tell, was no coward. He’d stood his ground and was
polite about it. He respected that.
As they turned up the hill away from the game trail and
headed ‘round the slope toward the town, Roscoe Hunter turned his horse and
watched for Jeb Castor. He was a lying, fool talk’n, no good, sod busting
coward if he’d ever seen one, and he’d grown tired of having to tell that fool
what to do. Jeb approached slowly from the rear, riding that tall mare, came up
lame every other day. When Jed stopped a few yards back, that stupid look on
his face, Roscoe had had enough.
Jeb stood his ground, and Roscoe almost respected that, but
he knew it was only out of confusion, not bravery.
Roscoe pointed at the mare and said, “That horse slowing us
down a’gin. I ain’t have’n none of it. You get off that hoss and let’s see that
rear hoof she bin favor’n.”
“It’s a loose shoe is all, Roscoe. I was gonna mend it first
thing.”
“Git.”
Jeb dismounted and walked back his hand to the right rear
hoof and lifted. Roscoe was close enough so he could see a nail had come loose
and had torn out part of the hoof. “Let me see that.” Roscoe slid off his mount
and took hold of the hoof. “You no account Jonah. How you let this animal be
like that?”
Roscoe grabbed the nail, twist it out and in one swift
motion, ran it into Jeb’s gut. When Jeb bent over, Roscoe slapped him on the
face and kneed his forehead. Jeb fell back, the nail still stuck in his side.
“I can’t abide sloppy. I can’t abide cruelty to animals. Now
get your ass out of here.”
Jeb sat up dazed, holding his side, a dumbfounded look on his
face. “But Roscoe.” His upper lip quivered. “I ain’t done nothing to deserve
that.” Tears filled Jeb’s eyes.
Roscoe turned away in disgust. “You ain’t done nothing….”
The other men gathered their mounts around in a circle.
They’d seen this show before. Just last week Roscoe kicked a boy out of the
group for being stupid with the gun powder, and now he was even angrier at Jeb.
“How long you been riding with us?” asked Roscoe.
“You know how long. I joined you all…”
“I joined you all…” Roscoe mocked.
Jeb turned to the other men for sympathy, but met stone
faces. “You all know me.”
“How long, you tall-tale jawing, bone box yapper?” Roscoe said,
waving the air the way Jeb did when unfurling a long winded story.
Jeb rubbed dirt into his palms, as if to sooth him somehow.
“Since Charlottesville,” he said, almost like it was question.
“My horse’s teat! All the way since then. That’s been half a
year or more, and I swear to God you been slowing us down ever since. You lazy!
Let your mount rot under foot.” Jeb started to answer, but Roscoe continued.
“I’ll tell you what fer. You a lazy, malingering, son-of-a-bitch, and I’ve had
done with you. We called The Wolves. Not the Lazy Malingering Jaw-box’s! Now,
go on. Git.”
Jeb started to get up, and Roscoe kicked him in the ass. Jeb
fell back and the men laughed. When Jeb limped toward his mount, Jeb stepped in
front of him.
“Oh, no. You done with this horse. Now go!”
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