Rising Stars: Meet Manuel Aragon of Denver, CO

Today we’d like to introduce you to Manuel Aragon.

Hi Manuel, thanks for joining us today. We’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
I was born and raised in Denver’s Northside, and that place—its people, its shifting landscape, its memory—runs through everything I create. I grew up in a working-class Latine household where storytelling was how we made sense of the world. From my family’s kitchen table to the stories I’d hear on the block, I was always surrounded by layered, complicated, beautiful narratives—whether or not anyone called them that.

I studied Film & TV at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, where I learned structure and craft, but it wasn’t until I came back home that I truly began to understand my own voice. My work now leans heavily into the speculative, the surreal, and the deeply personal—often blending the real with the imagined to explore themes like grief, memory, cultural identity, and the cyclical nature of time.

Right now, I’m working on a few major projects. I’m trying to put together a multidisciplinary piece that imagines what Latine identity could look like 200 years into the future, created in collaboration with community through workshops, storytelling, photography, and performance. I’m also deep into two novels: We Buy Houses 4 Ca$h, a speculative story about homes vanishing overnight and the insidious reach of Big Tech; and You Can Never Go Home, a vampire novel set in the Southwest that weaves together myth, family legacy, and the desire to belonging.

I’m also working on a short story collection called Norteñas, which feels like the spiritual heart of all this work. These stories are rooted in the Northside and across the Southwest, where magical realism meets daily survival. The collection explores inherited trauma, haunted landscapes, loss, ritual, and the quiet ways we try to hold on to home—even as gentrification, violence, or time threaten to erase it. Norteñas moves through generations, blending ghosts with memory, music with silence, and love with the unspoken grief we carry. These aren’t just stories about the past—they’re about what still lingers, what refuses to leave, and what’s trying to bloom in the cracks.

Whether I’m writing fiction, making films, or building community-rooted projects, the through line is the same: honoring where we come from while making space to imagine what else is possible.

Alright, so let’s dig a little deeper into the story – has it been an easy path overall and if not, what were the challenges you’ve had to overcome?
It definitely hasn’t been a smooth road. Like many artists rooted in community, I’ve had to constantly balance making a living with making meaningful work. There’s the hustle of freelance and gig work, the emotional labor of telling stories tied to personal and collective grief, and the very real struggle of staying grounded in a city that’s rapidly changing.

As someone whose work is deeply tied to place, memory, and justice, I’ve also been engaged in activist spaces—fighting for housing equity, cultural preservation, and the right for our communities to not just survive, but thrive. That kind of work is urgent and necessary, but it’s also draining. Burnout is real, especially when you’re carrying your own generational wounds while trying to hold space for others.

There have been moments of real doubt—where I’ve questioned whether this path makes sense, whether the stories I’m telling will find their audience, whether the systems around us will ever change. And as a Chicano artist working in genres like speculative fiction, I’ve often found myself pushed to the margins of both literary and activist spaces—never quite fitting into the boxes people expect.

But through all of it, what’s kept me going is community. The collaborations, the storytelling circles, the youth workshops, the late-night conversations about what’s possible—it’s those moments that remind me why I do this. The road’s been rough, full of stops and starts, but it’s also been full of people who believe in each other, and in the power of collective imagination.

And that, more than anything, is what pushes me forward.

Appreciate you sharing that. What else should we know about what you do?
I’m a storyteller at heart—I work across fiction, film, and community-based projects, and my work often lives at the intersection of speculative storytelling, cultural memory, and place. I explore themes like grief, identity, gentrification, spirituality, and the surreal ways time and memory shape us. Whether I’m writing a novel, producing a short film, or facilitating a community workshop, I’m always asking: What stories do we carry? And what futures are we brave enough to imagine together?

By day, I serve as the Senior Director of Programs at Colorado Youth for a Change, where I support efforts to reengage young people in education and help provide individualized student interventions across the state. That work is deeply tied to my creative practice—it keeps me grounded in the real-life experiences, challenges, and brilliance of youth and communities that are too often overlooked. It also reinforces the urgency of storytelling as a tool for both visibility and transformation.

I think I’m most proud of the fact that my work is rooted in community. I don’t see art as something separate from activism, education, or healing. I’ve collaborated with other artists, organizers, and cultural workers to build spaces that hold joy, grief, complexity, and possibility—all at once. That community-centered ethic is at the core of everything I do.

What sets my work apart is that it refuses easy categories. I blend speculative fiction with intimate, grounded storytelling. I center Chicanx and Latine voices without trying to explain or water anything down. And I believe in honoring both the ancestral and the futuristic—because we’re always holding both.

Ultimately, I want to tell stories that linger, that haunt in a good way, that offer people a mirror, a memory, or a map forward.

Who else deserves credit in your story?
I definitely haven’t gotten here alone. Everything I’ve done has been shaped by community—by family, friends, mentors, and a creative circle that constantly reminds me that storytelling is collective, not solitary.

First and foremost, my wife Sarah is my anchor. Her strength, grace, and wisdom have helped hold it all together through the hard stretches—creative blocks, long nights, raising four kids while still dreaming big. And my children are a constant source of inspiration and clarity. They remind me what matters and why I tell stories in the first place.

I’ve had the privilege of learning from and being mentored by Mat Johnson, whose work and guidance helped me see how speculative fiction could be a vehicle for cultural memory, critique, and liberation. His mentorship pushed me to own my voice fully, especially in spaces where Latine stories are often marginalized.

I’m deeply grateful for my creative community. Writers like Steven Dunn, Arvin Ram, Kali Fajardo-Anstine, Bobby LeFebre, and DL Cordero have been crucial to my journey. They’ve read drafts, offered sharp feedback, reminded me of the power of nuance, and walked alongside me in the mess and beauty of the creative process. These friendships have kept me accountable—to my voice, my roots, and my people.

I’m also fortunate to be surrounded by powerful visual artists and filmmakers whose work challenges and expands the way we tell stories. Photographers like Thalia Gochez and Amanda Lopez have inspired me with their ability to capture deep, layered portraits of our communities—images full of intimacy, pride, and quiet power. Walter Thompson-Hernández, whose work crosses film and journalism, continues to show how storytelling can live at the intersections of identity, migration, and futurism. These artists remind me that every frame, every detail, can be a form of resistance and love.

Bobby LeFebre, Alan Dominguez, and Tim Hernández are more than collaborators—they’re family. We’ve created together, grieved together, built spaces for joy and justice, and reminded each other to stay rooted. They’ve helped shape not just my art, but the way I move through the world as a cultural worker and storyteller.

And ultimately, the biggest credit goes to the community itself—the Northside of Denver, the people who’ve shared their stories with me, who’ve seen themselves in my work and told me that it mattered. That’s who I do this for. I carry their voices with me in every page, every frame, every scene.

Contact Info:

• Website: manuelaragon.com
• Instagram: @spacejunc
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/spacejunc/
• Twitter: https://x.com/Spacejunc

Image Credits
Photos #1 and #2: Kevin J. Beaty, the rest: Manuel Aragon