Literary Genius Unthwarted By Death

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Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

I must confess, I have double-guessed my plan of haunting my favourite pen many times in the subsequent decades wasted lurking in this blasted antiques shop. My hope that a similar budding authorial genius would be drawn to my chosen literary implement was seemingly not to be; perhaps I had been the last. Making my tragically early death all the more tragic.
From the moment I spotted her skulking down the aisle I immediately identified her as a hapless modern poser. Just like all the others. Obsessed with trappings and “vibes”, not understanding that austere dedication is what separates a true writer from a mere amateur scribbler.
However, unlike all the previous wretched vultures hunting scraps of the departed to clothe their naked inadequacies, she picked up my pen. Her gormless face beaming as she examined the initials engraved into the cap.
If I’d had a heart still, it would’ve fluttered in the hope that, perhaps, she’d heard of me? Even read some of my works, which surely my loved ones must have rushed to publish after my unfortunate demise.
Alas, she hadn’t. Naturally she was far too uneducated and unsophisticated to have even brushed against the lofty circles which I shone amidst in life. It turned out we simply have the same initials, and she was “tickled pink” by discovering my pen. Humph!
At least this trick of the fickle fates freed me from that musty antique shop.
First I had to endure further humiliation, being jostled around in a pink leather satchel against cheap notebooks and one of those soulless pseudo-typewriters. Confirming my suspicions; this wretch was a poser. No true writer would ever entrust their sublime thoughts to caged lightning.
Nonetheless, it’s imperative my authorial genius be released; I’d simply have to work with what I had.
So I waited with immense patience. Until finally, a full three hours after reaching her pokey, poorly decorated flat, she sat down with a tall cup of what she described, in her ‘photo caption’, as coffee, though having witnessed its creation I can confidently say it was mostly milk. Not only a poser but a liar. Disgraceful!
She took a sip. Fiddled about arranging the paper, ink, and my pen. Checked her little lightning slate again, looking at the picture she’d just posted. Pouted, for reasons I could not discern. Then finally, finally picked up the pen, grasping it clumsily, filled it, and touched it to the paper.
At once I struck, seizing control. Decades of laying in wait finally vindicated! Unaware of my presence, and possessing a will and mind far feebler than my own, she was helpless to stall my motions. She had no control over the pen. It kept writing and writing, white pages filled with ink. My plan was finally coming along!
Until the pen ran dry.
My artistic genius run aground, I faltered, and in that moment her dormant psyche reasserted itself. This being its natural shell gave it an unfair advantage, allowing it to overwhelm my own, greater mind.
She blinked. Looked down at the art which I had blessed her pages with. Marvelled “Oh, wow! So that’s what people mean, when they go on about ‘flow states’.”
It’s fortunate she couldn’t hear my withering disdain at her wretched obliviousness. That she could not recognised being treated as an instrument of genius cemented my pity towards her.
My forbearance was further tested when she squinted and muttered “I clearly need a lot of practice with this pen. Eesh. Uhh…”
Tsk! My handwriting was elegant in its efficiency, allowing me to swiftly record my genius whenever the muse struck. Hardly my fault that modern writers were barely literate.
She took a long drink of her long-cooled poser pseudo-coffee. Sat back. Started reading in earnest. “Oh. Wow.”
I preened. Waiting for realisation to finally dawn, for her to realise she had been visited by a visionary far beyond her feeble comprehension.
“This is terrible. Oof. Well… first draft, right?”
I froze. Were I not already long deceased, I would’ve dropped dead from shock. How could any aspiring writer, even a modern poser, fail to recognise horizon-broadening literary brilliance??
My horror grew as she took out a tacky four-colour pen, clicked the red out, and started scribbling over my perfect prose!!!
The plebeian, small-minded “critiques” she mumbled included such nonsense as “I really need to cut down on the repetition” (the point is to ensure small-minded readers understand my brilliant symbolism!), “sooo many adjectives” (how else do you propose I capture my sublime, poetic, masterful observations of our petty world??), and “I can’t even tell who I meant to be the object of this sentence” (must I spell everything out for you???).
Helpless, all I could do was scream helpless objections into her oblivious ears.
Finally she sat back with a weary sigh, apparently stumped trying to reduce my brilliance to mundanity, and grumbled “Maybe I’m just not a flow writer. Not sure I can do anything with this.”
Then the soulless wretch dumped my work into the bin!!! Got herself a fresh cup of milk fortified with a splash of coffee, and sat down with a fresh stack of empty pages!
Fuming, I decided to let her learn. Oh yes. Let her try and fail, so she could finally appreciate my genius!
Watching over her shoulder, I shook my head and cackled. Not only was her prose sparse, depressingly utilitarian, and uninspired, she seemed to think Arthur, the pathetic joke of a man intended to demonstrate Henry’s manliness, was the more interesting character.
My irritation at her proudly declaring her pathetic imitation of my genius “way better” was only compounded by the disgustingly glowing feedback her craven excuse for a professor gave her. I am surrounded by FOOLS!
But I am not beaten - she’s decided that “flow pages” are a good way to “get all the crap out of my system”. I will teach her to recognise literary genius if it’s the last thing I do!

Prompt was “She had no control over the pen. It kept writing and writing, white pages filled with ink. My plan was finally coming along…”