Cinnamon Roll-less in Seattle

I am a very picky eater. However, I love Starbucks' cinnamon rolls. Apparently, so does everyone else because three quarters of the time I try to buy one and they're all out. Here's how the conversation goes:

Me: Do you have any cinnamon rolls?

Overly Cheerful Barista: Oh, no. Sorry, sold out. How about a pumpkin cinnamon scone or a slice of non-fat cinnamon pound cake?

Me: (looking disgusted) No, no, no! Really, that's okay!

Honestly, I find the rest of their pastries overly pretentious and the rest of their food not very good either. So here's the question: if you make something really fabulous that sells out every day, why not make more of it and earn better profits? Why only stock a specific number of cinnamon rolls? Is it a franchise specification?

Also, why don't independent/no slave labor/shade grown/fair trade coffee shops sell cinnamon rolls? They always have tofu doughnuts and mafia muffins (heavy as cement shoes). Why not something for the slightly less health conscious who still want to save the world?

Short Story: Distraction

It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...

Poetry and Stuff

Grief:Peripheral The flicker of bluish light filters out what is missing; there is only one set of boots by the door, an apple sits on the counter uneaten, and even if you don’t make a sound, the notch in your heart is nothing personal. ____________________________ Yeah, I know I said no poetry, but I lied. From The Culling, because what girl doesn't dream of owning a library with a ladder? I just posted the last chapter of The Bond, which I'm not 100% satisfied with. It is the end of this novella, but the story continues in the next book of the series. One of my biggest problems is I don't have a title for the next novella. The working title was "The Break," which doesn't really work. If you have an idea or two, throw 'em in the comments.

The things people say

1. "I don't know. I don't know what you do." (In response to me asking, "Why would I have a blowup doll?") 2. "What are you saying? I can mouse with my right hand." (From a lefty after he was accused of moving the mouse to the left side of the computer.) 3. "I (hic) gave this girl my (hic) my phone number (hic) and she (hic) she never called (hic) called me." 4. "You're hurting me!" "I'm stabbing your coat." "With a knife!" "So?" "Knives hurt people!"

Refracted Neurons

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