Solomon Pressman, a very talented young writer, has been given the opportunity to attend the prestigious Ouran Academy, free of charge.
Another story of a commoner mingling with the Elite, but this time it's a little different.
Picture of Solomon at the top or how I imagine him (artwork not mine) Ik it's not anime, just use ur imagination Bye bye xxx
P r o l o g u e
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(Solomon's POV)
God, I fucking hate this.
"Oh my! How did you get your hair like this?"
"Is it real?"
"Do they hurt?"
"Are they yarn?"
There were a few other things that were said, but I couldn't really understand.
The herd of old Japanese women just seemed to increase by the dozen as they continued to interrogate me in the middle of the airport, ogling my twist that I thought were concealed by my signature beanie.
Alright, before you get confused let me take it back a bit.
———
My name is Solomon Pressman. I am 16 years old, a sophomore in high school, and I was born in Jacksonville Florida. Now that cute introduction is over, let me inform you on what the hell is going on.
I'm a writer and an aspiring author, I've been in love with writing ever since I learned how to write my own name. I loved writing so much, when I was younger my grandfather could never seem to keep a pencil out of my hand. I'm really good at what I do. I wrote articles for the town paper, got paid to write resumes and my classmates' research papers, and even went on Ellen.
That last one was a lie.
Soon.
Every two years there is this youth international writing competition, where young writers all around the world write an essay on world peace.
Cliche, I know right.
And me being the successful and infamous writer I am, I decided to submit an essay.
Again.
I've entered the contest three times and only have made it to nationals. Now, you think that would crush my spirit, and I admit it did, but I knew that I had to keep pushing forward and continuing to try. I spent weeks working on my essay, constantly proofreading and going back to change things, getting others to proofread and then going back and editing. The amount of all nighters, sweat and tears, and coffee spent on working on my piece of writing was endless.
But I finally finished.
I sent my work in the mail and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
After two weeks I received my first letter saying that I made it to States. My grandfather and I went out to Pelicans Snow Cones to celebrate my fourth State letter. I wasn't too excited, I was saving my true celebration for the big letter, the one telling me I made it to the international level.
