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People Can Tell


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Borders of Society


With L.A. band Space Hurricane




Moan Red - guitar/vocals

Licks - guitar

Rory - bass

H_Bomb - drums

Riff City


Moan Red - guitar/vocals

Licks - guitar

Rocket - bass

H_Bomb - drums



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Stay tuned for live dates.





(Short Film, 2021)

After experiencing the highs and lows of the fashion business, Marilyn (Krista Morin) returns to her hometown and discovers a soulmate in Wilhelm (Steve Johnston). 



(Short Film, 2020)

Bizarre events unfold when an impassioned space captain (Moan Red) finds himself marooned on an uninhabited planet.

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(Short Film, 2019)

Norman Bates' 1st cousin once removed (John Reneaud) invites the camera out to his desert homeland to discuss his notorious kin.


All stories by Moan Red

CAFE 786


Sofia was an Italian in London ordering a full English breakfast.


“I have the, eh, set breakfast number two, with, eh, veggie sausage, and coffee, black, thank you.”


“White toast or brown toast?” replied the graceful young man behind the counter.


“Eh, brown toast.”


“Ok, please take a seat.”


Sofia placed her shopping in one of the chairs at a table for two and sat in the other, her motion was like a performance, only now there were no cameras or paparazzi. Some said the only reason Sofia had a career was because her mother was Italy's biggest film star in the 1960s. Others said she was a talented actress and no-one could take that away from her.


An elderly lady with a cappuccino and a stylish haircut, who was sitting at the table next to Sofia's, turned to give the new arrival a welcoming gaze. The lady had been keeping an eye on Sofia (and concealing her surprise) from the moment the actress appeared outside the glass-fronted business. “You are very beautiful, my dear,” said the lady, with a quality Sofia was not used to.


“Grazie, Signora. You know, I, eh, I hear this so much it means nothing, but when you say, it is like, eh, hearing for the first time. It is very special when you say.”


The lady could not stop her heart from pouring out across her face in the form of a smile. Sofia had no recollection of the lady, she was just a baby the last time they were together, in Milan. Some said the lady was the only person Sofia's father ever truly loved.



He popped in one night with his raincoat and wet hair - London was cinematic. The electronic bell above the door rang happily for him, as is did for everyone, without question. “Good evening, Sir,” spoke the sales assistant from his seat behind the counter. They were the only two in the shop, it was them, the bottles, the cans, the snacks, the wood paneling, and whatever else.

The flat he was calling home for the time being was just a short walk away, but miles out at sea, it was the flat equivalent of a ghost ship, never to be moored again. He was a pirate of some description, Navarro Wines was an island far from the mainland. Ghost ships and remote islands gave him strength, and yet, pushed him deeper into a forest.

He wanted a brand of Belgian white beer, the one he drank on his last night in California, when he kissed a woman from Reykjavik goodbye. The sales assistant pointed him towards the fridge, where, sure enough, standing patiently in a line, were bottles filled with the rum of California and Reykjavik.


A reassuring feeling came over him. He believed he was in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. “Do you think I made the right decision?” he asked the man behind the counter, who now felt like family to him.


“Oh, yes, Sir, excellent Belgian white, very nice!”


“No, not about the beer, about everything else.”


The sales assistant's face changed gear. “Sir, I don't know what you're talking about, I just met you.”



She had to get out of the pub, so she did. Outside, West London was chilly but alive - she felt like an impostor. She entered Ealing Broadway Shopping Centre through its lesser known rear entrance and found Chantal Cafe waiting for her, she did not resist.


On her way to a window seat she spotted a plate of spaghetti bolognese, its fragrant aroma reminded her of the seashore. After she sat down a waitress tried to hand her a menu, but there was no need, she ordered the spaghetti and a pot of tea without hesitation, then stared out the window at times gone by.


She remembered being arrested in a sleepy fishing village under the Mediterranean sun. Her crime was 'discharging fireworks near a public highway'. A man dressed in black bribed the police chief to drop the charge, then invited her to his porch to listen to him play his guitar. The police chief stopped by the impromptu concert with a bottle of wine and wept as the music played.


Her tea arrived before the spaghetti, she cradled the cup in both hands to soak up the warmth. The arrival of her food gave her tingles, the first mouthful couldn't have been further from disappointment. She felt bad for leaving the man dressed in black in the pub – they were husband and wife now. She rang him up and asked if he would like to join her.



Nobody knew why Inge's Christmas skirt was so provocative. She had other skirts that were similar, but for some reason, none were as powerful as the Christmas one.


The email that Inge and her co-workers received about the office Christmas Party said that all were welcome to adhere to a 'festive' dress code. Inge was hit over the head with indecision, her skirt was the most Christmassy thing she had, but it would be like going to work wrapped in TNT.


One of Inge's co-workers, Kathy, tried to explain to Inge, who was not from the UK, how British Christmas work bashes were notorious for scandal and regret. Inge heard none of it, all she could think about was her outfit. At home that night, in front of a full length mirror, she made up her mind – she would wear her Christmas skirt.


On the morning of the party, Inge took a deep breath and walked into the office, only to find everyone anxiously discussing the whereabouts of company boss Mr Flinders, who had not been seen, or heard from, since he went to the pub with some of his employees on the night before.


A scream of terror swept across the office floor. All heads turned to see Kathy emerge at the top of a narrow staircase. “It's Mr. Flinders!” she cried, with one hand on the door frame and one on her chest.


Inge joined the procession of employees that made their way passed Kathy, down the staircase, along a short hallway, into the supply room. She squeezed herself between co-workers until she saw Mr Flinders, lying on his back, naked and unconscious, next to a rented photocopier that was caked in dried vomit.


Forevermore, not a single word was said about Inge's Christmas skirt by any of Mr Flinders' employees.