Calle del Carmen 21

Commissioner Cabarga is on vacation ...


Or that’s what he thought … …

Book trailer



El próximo caso del inspector Cabarga


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The wind wasn’t blowing. It was going to be another bad day. Commissioner Cabarga’s marriage wasn’t at its finest spot. He and his family needed those vacations. However, the unexpected discovery of a corpse in the fishermen’s old quarter, by the harbor, turned his plans upside down in a way he would never have envisioned. Nobody realized the deceased was missing until the smell of putrefaction became a nuisance, even though the police found next to him a heap of legal currency tied in bundles: far too much money to be left behind by anyone without much ado.

Once again Cabarga will find that things are rarely what they seem, and that the limits of what is possible can stretch in measures we would never imagine. An exciting novel where reality shows its roughest, human side, and where lives intertwine beyond the realm of fiction. The best of the book is in each and every page, and at the end of them all its characters will stay with us forever.






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Carmen Cuevas was born in Santander in 1971. She studied in Physical Sciences at the Universtity of Cantabria. She has worked as a physicist for twenty years. During these years, literature has never stopped being her refuge, the place where everything can happen.


Her short stories has been published in several anthologies (GOTAS DE MERCURIO, MENTIRA COCHINA, CON SABOR A SUGUS). Her first novel as co-autor, LA ÚLTIMA FRONTERA, was a finalist of Circulo de Lectores award in 2.010. In 2.014 it comes her first publication in digital of CALLE DEL CARMEN 21, comes out a crime novel.

VI concurso de MICRORRELATOS NEGROS “La Bóbila” – ganador del público (2.016)

IV concurso de HAIKUS “Biblioteca de Los Corrales” – accésit (2.016)

XXII concurso de relatos cortos “Juan Martin Sauras” – finalista (2.017)



Some say that the nicest cities in Spain are those that begin with an S: San Sebastian, Santander, Santiago de Compostela, Salamanca, Segovia, and Seville. So, what else could I say, being born in Santander.

For years I worked every day at a small office, from nine to six, from Monday to Friday, eleven months a year, and for some of the years of my life. The job never pleased me much, and despite the many hours I dedicated to it, it did never really motivate me. Neither did I motivate it, I guess. Perhaps that’s why I dreamt all day long that I was writing, imagined that the day wasn’t far when I might be able to spend hours without end reading and writing, and nothing else. The truth is, the profession of writer scared me. I was afraid of this deep solitude that makes writing possible. I thought that if I wasn’t good at it, I wouldn’t write again, and therefore it would be worse than before I’d tried, because I would have lost my dream. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was only lacking the courage.

But one day I remembered the old record player we had at home when I was little. My father rescued it from the depths of some closet when I wasn’t yet four years old, and gave it to me. Mind me, someone should have marked that day on the calendar with a fat red circle, because the record player revealed to me the magic world of folk tales long before books did. Since that moment, in the same place where a decade earlier my father had listened to The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, I submerged in the amazing world of stories—stories hidden on vinyl discs nearly as small as I myself, but which shortly after they started turning were unveiling a wide world yet to discover. With my small and chubby hands I put them carefully, and before long Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood were telling me their tales. They spoke to me about the dwarfs and the secrets of the forest, warned me against the Big Bad Wolf and the poisoned apples of jealous stepmothers, and taught me the pure and true love of prince charmings. The first love should always be like that.

I found out about Rapunzel, Ali Baba, the wolf and the seven lambs, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, the ugly duckling, and a myriad of characters whose stories I never tired of listening to, and which with so much repeating I learnt by heart. Then when I played with my dolls, I pretended they were the characters in the stories, and made them in turns say their lines, feigning the appropriate voice in every case. The voices of the stepmothers were always grave—although not so much as that of the Big Bad Wolf—, and the leads had tender and romantic voices. My voice trembled if the character was in fear, whispered if a secret was being told, sounded furious when the villain’s plans crumbled, and was always maternal and serene when the fairy godmother was speaking. I repeated the tales to everyone who would listen, over and over. I never tired of telling how the wolf extended its paw under the door, or how Rapunzel let her hair drop from the tower where she was locked up.


Now, over forty years later, I don’t know anymore whether those moments happened this way, or if by recalling them so often they have become real. I do know though that the record player was red and white, that it worked with big batteries, that the discs were colorful, and that I cried every time the stepmother and her two daughters left Cinderella and went to the dance without her. It wasn’t the fact that they left her alone that made me sad—because I knew her fairy godmother would come soon—, but that just before they left, the three women looked at her contemptuously, and while the daughters were laughing the stepmother said in her piercing and know-all voice: “Enjoy yourself, sweetie!”. It was the tone what hurt the most, the brutal shock against all my tender feelings being ill-treated, and I cried of indignation. I cried every time.

And now I look too for an isolated corner, a lamp, a table and a computer, and write my stories. Sometimes I return to my parents’ house—much emptier and quieter now—, sit in the same corner I used to, listen again to my childhood tales and, in the same folding table where I studied physics, I start writing. I write because it makes me feel. I write because, as Toni Morrison said, literature is a refuge, a place where everything can happen, where it’s possible to react with violence or sublimity, where it’s fine to feel melancholy or fear, or even to fail, or to be wrong, or to love someone or wish something deeply, and not call it by another name, nor feel shame for it. It’s a place to feel deeply.






What have I written?


Story included in the book Mercury Drops

Mercury, whom the Greeks called Hermes was the god’s messenger, the god of travelers and speakers. And we, the writers are their small drops, children who spend their lives dreaming about those wings on sandals. One day, they will make it possible for us to fly.

The mother of the seven lambs could not take care of them all, she had to sell one to the wolf. He did not need to extended its paw under the door. That is one of the “THIRTEEN TRUTHS THAT WE NEVER TOLD”.



Story included in the book “Mentira cochina”

Have you ever thought about the possibility that we were not real, just mere creatures that someone was dreaming?

Gema continues giving PRIVATE LESSONS at home with their parents, halfway to a life that does not matter, and she wants that dream over once.

Story included in the book Flavored Sugus

This was the last book made in “Taller de Literatura de Madrid”, a tribute to its founder, Enrique Paez.

Many techniques have been written, but there is only one great truth: all that matters is the passion that we are able to convey through words. So, what does not add, subtract. And I distrust the books too long.

I like the writers who say much with few words.


  A veces uno sueña con una vida tranquila. Lo normal, un trabajo, una familia,
  unas relaciones agradables. Pero, sin saber cómo, se ve atrapado en pequeños
  infiernos. Y uno piensa que, si quisiera, podría irse en cualquier momento,
  pero lo cierto es que no puede. Y la vida se consume en todo lo que no

Aquí podéis verme en una sala de autopsias, con José María el médico forense y con su técnico de autopsias. Y en un bonito y acogedor bar de la calle Santa Lucía, con Yolanda, médico de urgencias. También estuve con Antonio Martín, profesor titular de la Universidad de Cantabria, asesor de empresas y experto en recursos humanos. Y por supuesto con la policía, 35 años en homicidios, ¡tantas cosas que contar! … en la foto “calibre 38″.

Todos ellos me han sorprendido y me han contado cosas muy interesantes, que ya he metido en la olla a presión donde se está cocinando el próximo libro. Pero, de momento, no puedo contar nada.



Qué opinan los lectores de Calle del Carmen, 21

Interesante, entretenido, recomendable, regalable, releible.

El bloc de la Bóbila

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Un recorrido por la Santander más sórdida siguiendo los pasos de un asesinato relacionado con drogas, sexo y dinero.

El inspector Rodríguez

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Una pluma fresca en el panorama literario.

Comentario en el Bloc de la Bóbila

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