Reggie wrote his EAST END STORIES in the early 1990s, but they haven't seen the light of day until now. In the book, he recalls the close-knit East End community in which he and his brother grew up, the characters in his family and neighbourhood, and of course, the many villains he worked with. Filled with anecdotes about the area’s most outlandish personalities and notorious criminals, and offering a fascinating journey around the Krays’ ‘manor’ including their favourite haunts and business enterprises, the book paints a vivid portrait of a London that has long since disappeared.

    Borne of this statement was Jessie Blodgett's legacy: The LOVE>hate Project.As I sat there with my face in my hands, asking Him why, my thoughts traveled forward from the eighth grade musical where Jess debuted her first original composition, “Butterflies.” I remembered recurring visions of myself at her funeral with this song playing in the background. I had always dismissed these premonitions as typical parental fears. Every parent worries about losing their child, right?Then I envisioned an angel coming to Jess in her darkest hour. As the rope bit hard into her neck, cutting off her air, the grip too hopelessly strong for her to fight off, as she struggled desperately, bewildered by the betrayal and cruelty of a friend, the angel came. Out of her body it called her soul. Floating up and away together, the angel whispered in her ear, “Fly away, fly high. You’re a butterfly, and butterflies are free to fly…”ExcerptBut, of course, most of life—the mundane minutes, seconds, and moments—was just normal life. Now, life would never be normal again, of course. No, it would be a moment-to-moment wrestling match, a constant duel for my attention between the abyss and the life of purpose.ExcerptJess was a young woman with an indomitable spirit. She was the girl who ran out into traffic on Highway 60 near Pike Lake to rescue a turtle that wasn’t going to make it across the road. She was the girl whose purse came from Ecuador, because it was a Fair Trade item, and even a stranger from halfway around the world deserved a chance to build a life.The way to meet this horrible tragedy was not with anger and bitterness. We had to respond to this incomprehensible act with the best of our true selves, not the worst. To honor Jess.ExcerptI had hit rock bottom. It had been over half a year now. It was the dead of winter. The shock phase was over, and all that was left was emptiness.The day before, I had gone up to Jessie’s room. I stood by the side of her bed. I imagined her lying there, sleeping peacefully…. And then I bent over and put my arm around her and gave her a kiss on the head, as if she was actually sleeping there.Even though I was alone, it was kind of awkward. But something about it felt really good, too, and I ended up hugging “her” for a full five minutes. Then, I grabbed the flannel shirt hanging on her bedpost, the shirt that still smelled like her, the one she wore so much in her last days, and I climbed onto her bed with the shirt and, using it like a blanket, I snuggled with “her” for a half hour. And I imagined that she talked back, speaking words of comfort and wisdom.ExcerptFACEBOOKBuck BlodgettJuly 15, 2014Jess, a year ago today....At 12:35 p.m. I took the call from Mom. She was sobbing, telling me she found you—you weren't breathing; there were marks on your neck. She did CPR, called 911. EMTs worked on you as we spoke. I asked if you were responding. She said "no." I asked if you were gone. No words came. I talked to God the whole drive home, hoping, praying. Our driveway was full—squad cars, firetrucks, ambulance, Crime Scene Unit vehicle. They wouldn't let me see you, touch you, hold you. Your room was taped off. I understood, but not being there for you when you needed help, or to say goodbye, was unbearable.It's been a year of deep pain and profound Love. Never again will I take a single second of this life for granted.

    This is not as easy as one would imagine: She was born in the church, educated at BYU, married in the temple, and is raising more Mormons. She faced a serious conundrum: keep quiet (and avoid losing everything dear to her), or tell the world what being raised LDS does to a person's psyche, especially when they realize that everything they were taught and everything they hoped to believe is a lie. To expose the difficulty faced by Mormons who leave the Church and to seek support for their plight, Regina offers a first-person confessional memoir recounting her many atrocious experiences, managing to weave in enough humor to keep you turning pages, and enough brutal honesty to bring you to an understanding of what it is to be a Mormon, and to try to leave it behind...

    One day… I wanted to explore the US in an RV. One day… I wanted to backpack in a foreign country. None of these things were happening because it seemed impossible to fit big adventures into a nine-to-five life. Until one day it hit me. One day was not just going to happen. I had to start taking the steps to make it happen and figure out how to fit it in. I got on the internet and searched for something to inspire me. I found the Becoming Ultra project. And thus began my journey to running a 50 mile race.

     As a child, I was known as "Jessica Pelley." When I was nine, I went to a sleepover at a friend's house for the weekend. While I was away, my entire family was murdered. I would spend the next 30 years fighting, crawling, and clawing my way through the darkness. This wasn't just a national news headline, a cold case, or a true crime show. It was my family. And my life. I was the broken little girl left behind to tell this story. I am now "Jessi," in the pages of this unapologetic memoir, set free. *** JESSI - APRIL 29, 2016 April 29, 1989. A date I cannot forget. Numbers forever seared deep into my soul. It was 27 years ago, today. Jesus. Get a grip, Jessi. They’re just numbers. They don’t mean anything. You’re giving them power over you, again. That’s what I tell myself. But the numbers—those damn numbers—they haunt me. They always will. I cannot escape them. Not now. Not ever. For most people, dates are just numbers on a calendar. No big deal. Random markers of time affixed to the top left corner of small, white squares on a page to depict days filled with choices, chances, and opportunities. At least that’s what they are for the normal people. But I’m no longer one of them. For me, they serve as numeric reminders of the girl I used to be. A tragedy that would irrevocably and mercilessly alter the life of a little girl wearing dark blue jeans, canvas lace-up sneakers, and a white tee shirt, accessorized by prominent coke bottle glasses, her hair hanging in a messy bob. Her life would be forever dismantled. Gone. The moment they told me the words. The ones that I will never forget. At that moment, my life froze and shattered into pieces, splintering like bits of broken glass, dropping down onto the ground around me, like the remnants of a cracked windshield, falling fast before the spinning mind and broken heart of a wide-eyed little girl. Life, as I knew it, was over in that moment. What happened on April 29, 1989, has scarred me forever. A day that started out normally, before it became ensnared in marred memories, tucked between folds of tragedy and darkness. The lingering memories cut straight to the core of the hollow girl left behind. The darkness delivers itself to me, every year, on schedule. Steadily. Greedily. On the 29th day of April. Relentless. Haunting. It taunts the pieces of me that remain. Every single year. I try to lift myself out of the darkness. I tell myself the numbers shouldn’t matter. Not after 27 years have passed. Jessi, It’s just another day. You can do anything you want with it. Don’t slip into the darkness. But not even the voice in my head believes those lies I tell myself. Year after year, my happiness recoils, my thoughts run to a dark place filled with foggy memories and a void that swallows me whole. The door of despair opens and I’m trapped: alone, numb to the bone, emotionally deplete, void of all reality, space, and time. I hate the helplessness as I slip further into that dark place. A place that, long ago, was filled with light. A place where three little girls would sing happy songs, pick flowers, hold hands while skipping through tall blades of grass, and sit down at the dining room table, where they would bow their heads to pray before plates filled with food, in a home filled with laughter. Then it hits me—the life-defining, self-inflicted images of horror—of their final moments—dragging me deep into the darkness.

    With normal work cancelled or scaled back for so long, it has been a time to take stock and share experiences – both the everyday and the decidedly odd. Here Andrew takes a sharply observed and often hilarious walk through the strangest of days for all of us, reflecting on how precious our time really is, especially the time we have with our dogs.Beautiful, comical, endlessly optimistic and eternally hungry Olive, Mabel (and Andrew) have padded around from the Cheltenham Literary Festival to 60 Minutes Australia, from their living room studio with ABC News Breakfast to an appearance on Good Morning America, and from obscurity to excited whispers of “Is that really Olive & Mabel?” wherever they go. Not to mention the lucrative merchandise and advertising deals that were turned down by the dozen, and the odd phone call from Hollywood.Through it all, Olive and Mabel have always done exactly what they do best, being themselves and being there for Andrew – and for all of us who have loved watching their brilliant videos and following their progress online. If you’re a fan of Olive, Mabel and Andrew, this funny, touching and extraordinary account of a year like no other is an unmissable treat.

    Powerfully written, it's an eloquent reminder that our hold on life is tenuous, and communication, love and togetherness are the key to surviving such a tragedy.Christopher was 17 and he had everything to live for. He was smart, charismatic, loving and deeply loved, and a champion rugby player. Yet behind the veneer of a popular and confident athlete he was struggling. Diagnosed a year earlier with depression and severe anxiety, he hid his fears from family and friends. Finally, Christopher chose to stop fighting. This is the story of Christopher's shocking death and its tragic aftermath for the family. It is also the story of a mother and father's love, and their determination not to lose another son to the temptation of taking his own life. Honest, raw, and deeply moving, Jayne's account brings to life the visceral experience of grief and the long, painful journey towards finding meaning in life again. This is compelling and inspirational reading for anyone affected by the death of a young person.

    A reporter with a beautiful wife and talented son, Richey couldn’t imagine how it could be any better....Then his marriage falls apart and he can’t imagine how it could be any worse.The divorce leaves Richey questioning everything, while struggling to find a way forward. To get his bearings, he enters the first Ultimate Florida Challenge, an all-out twelve-hundred-mile kayak race around Florida.The UFC is less of a race than it is a dare or a threat. The thirty-day deadline sets a grueling, twenty-four-hour-a-day pace through shark- , alligator- , and even python-infested waters. But those twelve hundred miles are only a fraction of a journey that pulls Richey back to when he was embedded with troops in Iraq, reporting on missing children, and hiking the mountains of Montana with his son, and shows him where he went wrong, where he went right, and how to do it better the second time around.Warren Richey’s memoir Without a Paddle is a remarkable physical and emotional journey that cuts to the heart of what it means to be a man, a husband, and a father.

    - The author herself was diagnosed with MS 21 years ago and authentically and beautifully captures the thoughts and emotions of a vibrant woman navigating a new reality.- Comparable to Jan Karon's bestselling Mitford series, A SUNDOG MOMENT is brimming with insight and wisdom for everyone--no matter what their experience or point of view.- Sharon Baldacci has written for "The Herald-Progress and "Richmond Magazine, among others, and has won awards from the Virginia Press Association and the Virginia Press Women, of which she is a member.

    This tell-all story will put you on the front line of the reality of street paramedicine. From gruesome and violent encounters to making split-second decisions which may have cost a life, experience the emotional struggle our responders have to deal with on a daily basis. Through the highs and lows of his career, ten-year Paramedic David Stone doesn't hold back as he tells of the circumstances which haunted him and eventually drove him out of the career... and why it was all worth it in the end. Ride front seat with this thrill-packed memoir encompassing over a decade of true stories from the medic who experienced it.

    Little did she know that as she followed him, he was plying his trade: conning people. Her family drove stolen cars, lived in stolen houses, and shopped with stolen credit cards. Drug use was regular, as were visits from strange people who were trying to track her father down. Though she eventually cut ties with her father, Candice could not ignore the scars that were left from her childhood.This is her story, one steeped in secrets but one that, ultimately, led her to a place of forgiveness and freedom. As she struggles to understand her criminal father, as well as her own imperfect life, Candice comes to realize that we are not defined by our circumstances but rather by how we react to those circumstances. She's found peace in the knowledge that God doesn't love us because we're perfect--but because he is.

    Confused, little Suz begins to blame herself for her mother's death. Her father eventually brings them back, but instead of finding a safe haven to rebuild their family, Suz finds herself plunged into a life of misery at the mercy of an uncaring and brutal stepmother.Unwanted tells the story of Suz's struggle to escape from her broken home and leave her fractured past behind her. But lurking in the shadows is a dark family secret...

    We are then forced to re-live the moments we have spent decades burying beneath amicable smiles and a false sense of security. This is my story; one shrouded in as much truth as my mind can tolerate. My story may mean nothing to you, but I believe, that if these words were to fall into the right hands, then they could have the potential to change someone’s life, someone’s mind. At a young age I learned what it meant to carry the scorching secrets of a fiery hell. For years I allowed the flames to consume my mind as I proceeded to live a life devoted to destruction and chaos. I blamed my mother. I blamed the men that raped me. I blamed the woman that refused to love me back. But when the smoke cleared, the mirror on the wall only painted a single reflection, that of myself. So, when the big bad wolf no longer blows, yet the house still falls, who will I have to blame then? Only me.

    Her teacher was busy chatting, so we waited patiently in the corridor. When he did come out, he indicated that the meeting would take place downstairs and headed off with us in tow. Before sitting down, I introduced myself using my first name, and put out my hand to be shaken. He mumbled back his full name as he took my hand, although I suspect he would have been shocked if I had actually dared use it. By this stage, I had already understood that teachers did not expect to be questioned about their practices. Of course, I did—question him, that is; politely and almost deferentially. There was a slight pause, as he dipped his head to better digest what he had heard. Then, with the assurance of a perfect, unarguable answer, he replied, “But you are in France, Madame”. Some months before, my husband, three children and I had casually unzipped and discarded our comfortable Australian lifestyle and slipped on life in the country of haute couture. On arrival, there was no celebrity designer waiting for us, ready to pin and fit our new life to us; so we threw it on and wore it loosely, tightly, uncomfortably, any old how—until we learned for ourselves how to trim, hem and stitch à la française. This book is testament to the joyous, but not always easy, journey that we took along the way.

    Respected physician, loving husband, devoted father, and trusted friend. Grant was a straight-laced kid who grew up to be a clean-living adult. No drinking, no smoking, and certainly no drugs. It took everyone by surprise, most of all himself, when he became addicted to narcotics in his 30s. His story hit local press when he was found guilty of professional misconduct related to his addition, including over-prescribing painkillers to patients so he could buy them back--an infraction that caused his physician license to be suspended.Matheson's memoir is a gritty account of his narcotic addiction and all that it cost him: various relationships, his career, and almost his life. The Golden Boy takes the reader from the very first day of Matheson's drug addiction to that moment when he decided to rebuild his life through rehab and recovery.