Reclamation, the debut novel from Stu Griffith, chronicles one man’s journey from the criminal fringe to the center of “the show," an epic event that will send shockwaves through the dog fighting community, and society at large.

Thoughtfully told, Reclamation examines the blood sport, the people who drive it, and the dogs standing at the center of each fight. It’s the sordid story of truth begotten from lies, and the common shadow it casts into the life of each character.

Mahatma Gandhi said, “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” But, the protagonist in Reclamation believes our actions say no more about society than government policy does about the people living under it. We’re all where we’re supposed to be when our worlds come together, and greatness, in all its forms, is not limited to an act of kindness.


S a m p l e   T e x t 

Union Station. Gateway to the land of lies. A giant, white granite monument born from the hands of Italian laborers who inhabited the shantytown of Swampoodle that eventually disappeared into its shadow. Settled by Irish escaping the potato famine in the 1850s, one time home to the Washington Nationals, it took its name from the low swampy ground that cradled Tiber Creek. North Capitol Street, which now cuts through the heart of the storied area, is a mixed bag of office buildings, chain restaurants, and residential pockets in the midst of gentrification.

Ionic columns hold high the lofty ideals locked deep inside the neoclassical facade. Grandiose, 25-ton carved figures of Prometheus, Themis, Thale, Ceres and Apollo gaze upon a time and people lost on them. Perhaps saddest of them all is Prometheus, mankind’s champion. He stole fire from Zeus, gave it to us, and we scorched the earth. Despite his name, he had no forethought when it came to his dealings with man, no judiciousness in avoiding harm, no understanding of the true danger we represent. A titan failure, set in stone as a testament to the lesson never learned by us, to the unapologetic and self-deprecating existence we pass from generation to generation like a baton in a race that can never be won, a race that can only be run.

“Union Station.” The Metro operator’s voice sounded distant. Faint. The doors slid open and I stepped into the blur of people. The hour was early, but that didn’t seem to ebb the tide of commuters racing toward some seat that would take them some other place. Baltimore. Philadelphia. Boston. For me, New York. They streaked past me in every direction. On the train. Off. Up and down the escalators. Politely shoving themselves forward through the aggravating trickle, bending their bodies to overtake those moving too slowly, bumping them without apology. I stepped to the side, sat on a concrete bench, and watched the flow.

It’s amazing, really, how few people take inventory of their surroundings. Except for the girl with smiling eyes, no one looked at me. Not that they should have, necessarily. But, there I sat, a picture-perfect outsider, listening to the din of the everyman, and no one bothered to notice. [end sample text]

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