To commemorate the upcoming publication of "Masters of Kung-Fu" in The Fiddlehead, here is an insightful critical review from one of the thoughtful readers over on the Zoetrope website.
"Your story is well written. I can find no fault with it other than I despised the characters. I am reminded of pimpled teens playing dungeuns and dragons or the Karate Kid and bad local papers bursting with fluff. Like I said it is well written. That is all. I cannot relate to cowards...enjoy reading about them...or pretend that they should be written about in a flattering light. It wasn't cute, a tear jerker, or even faintly amusing. I think you ought to lay off the comic books and pick up a volume of Nietzche or Bukowski...that is: try to locate your nuts. Use the Kung Fu of words, and next time break some bones, sodomize a few syphiliptic whores, and live and write like Rimbaud, not a cripled weasel."
In my defence, I have a yellow belt in the Kung-Fu of Words. And I know exactly where my nuts are (in a jar on my girlfriend's dresser).
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