Carving

If I could carve, I'd carve the imprints of bones into a block of stone. Then I'd chisel out some teeth. Maybe wings, or scales. Claws. I'd carve a fossil of some beautiful, impossible creature that never existed. I'd call National Geographic, or the Royal Society, or Science magazine, and I'd say, "I think I might have a story here. You're going to want to check this out."
"We're on our way," they'd say as they hung up.
When the scientists arrived in starched lab coats and blue gloves, pushing up their glasses, I'd watch as they conducted test after test, and I'd call experts in mythological creatures. They'd declare it a phoenix, or a griffin, and the scientists would collectively sigh. I'd call disreputable newspapers, convince them there was no time to carbon-date if they wanted this story exclusive. The article would be printed the next day, with artists' rendering showing the beast in roaring glory, a dragon-chimera-unicorn chasing down pterodactyl prey.
And people would shake out their newspapers. Skeptics, of course, would protest; Charles Darwin's descendants would personally send me hate mail. My work would be referred to as the Piltdown Block, or worse, Fossilgate.
Still, my phone would ring ceaselessly with people who believed, conspiracy theorists, and interviewers. Most of the interviewers would have one question: motive. Money? Fame? Revenge? Religion? No, I would tell Oprah; no, to David Letterman; I had just been digging in my local quarry. Then, turning straight to the cameras, I'd say, "You never know what's out there, waiting to be discovered."
And very suddenly, I would wink.
Children would be found the next morning away from their Xboxes, digging up backyards, searching for crazy birds and winged lizards.
And if instead they found pill bugs and earthworms, how could they be disappointed?