Finley

By DiVitto Kelly

Mark Finley, happily married and father of two children, is now a shark. What’s worse, he’s now smack dab in the middle of the community pool, swimmers terrified, dashing for safety. You get the picture. But he’s a nice shark, quite unique actually. Bright as an orange and steeped in Hawaiian folklore. It’s a classic case of biting off more than you can chew. Yet, somehow, Mr. Finley must find a way to break a family curse and return to human form or he’s going to become a permanent fixture at his own aquarium.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956788969

DiVitto Kelly

DiVitto is originally from Cincinnati, Ohio, and currently resides in South Florida. He has published multiple novels and horror short stories. He has a master’s degree in library science and was an editor/reporter for the Seminole Tribe of Florida newspaper. He is a certified diver and enjoys everything ocean, particularly sharks. He’s also a papier mache artist, creating everything from marine animals to 6-foot Pop-Tarts.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The brilliant orange moon glimmered off the water like sunrays penetrating deep through stained glass. Thirty-four-year-old marine biologist William Finley, alone in a one-room bungalow, struggled to sit down on the rickety chair positioned directly in front of a simple, handmade wood desk.

This will be the last time I write to you, my dearest, scribed Finley as tears dropped onto the ivory linen stationary, blending in with the fresh ink laid down by the distraught man. He continued writing, pausing for a moment to regain his strength.

Struggling to grip the fountain pen, he concluded. It is becoming too difficult. I hope you will forgive me. I will love you and our son, Johnathan, forever. Your husband, William. He and his wife Liddy were due to celebrate ten years of marriage when he returned home to the picturesque coastal town of Beachside, Oregon. But now, she would have to raise their son alone. He cursed, slamming his balled-up fist on the table.

The bungalow sat a coconut’s throw from a secluded lagoon in Kauai, Hawaii, where he had performed a majority of his research over the past three months. Finley, lean and muscular at six-foot-two and with disheveled blond hair, had already placed the postage stamp in the top right corner, partially bent. Before, when he still had full use of his hands, the marine biologist had squared away most of his research papers and belongings.

The rustic structure was dimly lit, illuminated only by a pair of burning candles, both now standing an inch high. He finally managed to place the letter in the envelope to be mailed out. A native Hawaiian man in his early twenties, whom Finley had become friends with, stopped by every couple of weeks on his motorcycle to pick up and drop off correspondence.

Finley reached for another candle when a gust of ocean breeze blew through the open window. The envelope lifted from the table and fell to the floor. Finley struggled to pick it up, trying to grasp the dog-eared corner, but it slipped out of his stiffening, outstretched fingers. The envelope lodged between cracks on the worn, makeshift wood floor, now out of reach.

No! begged Finley, sobbing. His arm and leg muscles began to spasm more, the pain intensifying. He labored to breathe, his sides aching as if being pressed in a vise.

The marine biologist leaned up against the bamboo desk before shifting over towards the doorway. Finley peered at the dinner plate-sized hanging mirror housed in a seashell frame. He had purchased it from a quaint gift shop in Honolulu, promising to give it to Liddy as an anniversary gift when he returned. He turned away coldly, repulsed at what he had become, a shell of his former self. Finley stepped outside, shuffling through the cool sand, passing a half dozen flaming tiki torches set up in a row along the walkway. He used them as a guide as he approached the lagoon.

From the full moon above, Finley caught a glimpse of tinged orange reflecting off the water. He raised his head and stared at the night sky. Tears welled up in his eyes. The marine biologist struggled, fighting hard to inhale deep breaths. His skin felt dry and coarse. He lowered his head and tried to speak, but no words came out. Glancing once more at the darkened sky, Finley dove headfirst into the calming surf. Moments later, he was gone.

Chapter 2

Almost fifty years later to the day, thirty-eight-year-old Mark Finley now operated the weathered brick Finley Aquarium, beautifully nestled along the Oregon coastline. More by default than anything else.

His late father, Jonathan, like his grandfather, William, was a top-notched marine biologist. Mark, on the other hand, had little enthusiasm about following in their swim fins. At a young age, he’d lost his dad, who died tragically while diving in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, having been stung by a box jellyfish. It would only take seconds for the teen’s life to be thrown into tectonic upheaval.

The youngest Finley was not adventurous nor as colorful as his well-known father. And his grandfather, whom he had never met, was at one point one of the most highly respected professionals in the field of marine biology. On one occasion, William Finley even graced the cover of Life Magazine, his grinning tanned face partially hidden by his signature orange scuba mask.

But for the slender built man, peaking at five-foot-nine, he was too much the steady and cautious type—more observer than swashbuckler. He had an older brother, Scott, who eagerly followed in their dad’s footprints. Mark, on the other hand, was an English major, although he hadn’t written anything substantial since his college newspaper days. Now he was reduced to writing brochures, signs, policies and procedures and updating the Finley Aquarium website. And if there ever was a story about beached whales or shark sightings, his late father (or now older brother) were the go-to people for interviews by the local newspaper and television stations. Mark, not so much.

Prior to becoming the boss, he had taught at an elementary school for nine years but reluctantly volunteered to take over the family business. His older brother, five years his senior, basically ran the show. His mother had reached her fill with anything ocean related, still feeling her life cursed by her husband’s tragic death. She remarried a few years later and went back to the landlocked confines of Boise, Idaho, her former hometown.

Mark’s brother received a substantial offer to run the new state-of-the-art aquarium up in Portland. He leaped at the opportunity. Mark couldn’t fault him. His brother was married and had three children, one attending private school, the other two needing braces. Who the heck would turn down a hundred percent increase in salary?

Finley Aquarium, founded over a half century ago by his late grandfather, was the first ever aquarium on the postcard coastal front of the thirty-third state in the Union. The mostly faded light blue establishment housed a trio of in-ground doughnut-shaped cement pools. One was filled with a handful of nurse sharks; the other two brimmed with miscellaneous reef fish and sting rays. Inside the modest structure were educational displays, a classroom, an exhibit hall, and a sizable lab where staff cared for injured marine creatures. Under a fluttering worn navy blue canvas awning stood an outdoor figure-eight-shaped touch tank teaming with shallow water inhabitants. There, children of all ages enjoyed dipping their little hands, eager to touch prickly sea urchins, shy hermit crabs, starfish, and sand dollars (naturally olive green with sandpaper-like texture).

But the main attraction was the behemoth full-view cylinder shaped observation tank constructed in thick tempered glass. Centered in the exhibit hall, it stood nearly fifteen-feet high and had the circumference of a small rocket ship, a one-of-a-kind display that no other aquarium could match. Mark’s late father had poured tons of money into its construction, banking on its appeal to bring in revenue. The last occupants had been a pair of feisty nine-foot tiger sharks. Before that, it housed an eight-foot injured juvenile great white shark that was found tangled up in a discarded fishing net. For nearly a month, the extraordinary fish whirled the turnstiles, with thousands of paying customers pouring in to see Baby Jaws as it was christened. While great white sharks in the past had not fared well at aquariums, there was optimism this scenario would play out differently. Unfortunately, by week four, the shark had weakened and would not eat. A day later, it was released back into the ocean.

The other sharks on campus still provided solid numbers for the aquarium, but in the last half-decade, the larger sharks had to be released. Their replacements, like bad movie sequels, just didn’t provide the proverbial bite the aquarium needed to keep attendance up. Species with names like salmon, dogfish, and angel shark just didn’t conjure up bone-chilling excitement. After getting a taste of the toothy variety, like the great white, tiger, bull, and sand tiger, customers just weren’t enthralled anymore. As attendance started dwindling, Mr. Mark Finley decided to change the focus of the aquarium as a place for rehabbing injured sea mammals, particularly seals, dolphins, and sea otters. He especially had a keen interest in the latter. When he was a kid, his dad let him nurse a sea otter pup back to full health. After his dad died, it was one of the few enjoyable memories he had left of the aquarium. That, and standing alongside him on the rooftop, watching the sun dip into the Pacific.

Mark had other pressing concerns. Fifty years is a heck of a long run for an aquarium, one strategically placed close to the ocean. Storms and squalls had brought the facility to its knees. One persistent land developer, Arnie Bunda, a stocky, oak-barreled shaped man beaming with all the charm and guile of a pit viper, consistently pestered Mark about selling the property. Agitated, the father of two finally threatened to feed the rotund man to the sharks if he didn’t halt his ambitions. He conceded to his wife that the offer was extremely tempting, the best among a few others he’d received. Their three/two split-level home was in dire need of a new roof. And it seemed the appliances conspired to go kaput all in the same month, including the nineteen-year-old Kenmore refrigerator. With mortgage payments becoming harder and harder to make on time, the former schoolteacher was this close to accepting Mr. Bunda’s substantial offer. Mark publicly vowed he would never ever sell, knowing if he did, he’d feel the wrath from family, employees, and the local community, who certainly would not approve of condos blocking their million-dollar view of the Pacific.

I’d be in the proverbial dogfish house for sure, he lamented to his wife. Lately, though, he was second-guessing himself, knowing the idea of having a leak-free roof and working appliances would be appealing.

Chapter 3

One drizzly Thursday evening nearing seven, Mark sat alone in his office, nursing a Hair of the Dog Adam Doggie Claw beer, brewed locally in nearby Portland.

He gleamed at the assortment of pictures on the wall, most of his late father and grandfather. God, he wished he had their conviction for all things marine, but losing both kept him anchored to dry land. And yes, it was true, he hated fish—to eat it, that is. The only thing he found edible from the sea were shrimp cocktails doused in cocktail sauce, heavy on the garlic and lemon juice.

Mark stood up and took a sip of beer, savoring the fruit and honey flavor. He took a closer inspection along the oversized bulletin board. The whole office wall was almost completely wallpapered with noteworthy stories and photographs involving the family name, the aquarium in its heyday, and even some off the chart weird stuff. There were clippings of stories ranging from indistinguishable sea monsters dubbed globsters washing up on beaches, to people spotting gigantic submarine-sized sharks, or, better yet, mermaids. Classic National Enquirer material, but it was all amusing, to say the least. Mark wished he had his family’s adventurous spirit ingrained in his bones to keep the Finley Aquarium going.

A sudden knock on the door caught Finley off guard.

You’re still here, son? asked Darryl Watkins, a lifer maintenance employee with the aquarium, a tall, low-key gentleman with a penchant for old school jazz music and rebuilding classic motorcycles. He rumbled to work most days on his ruby metallic Indian Chief Bobber motorcycle, a top-of-the line model with keyless ignition and a sophisticated anti-braking system to boot.

Yeah, I’m still here, replied Finley. Just tidying up a few things, I guess.

Oh, answered Watkins, tipping his vintage green and yellow California Golden Seals baseball cap. It just kinda looked like you were someplace else. You doing okay?

I’m fine, I’m fine, said Finley. Just need some time to think. What are you still doing here? You’re usually gone by now.

You asked me to work on the leaking touch tank, remember? replied Watkins. Had to do a little spackling and add some strokes of paint, but it’s all good to go.

Oh, that’s right, thanks.

***

The staff, always dedicated, was becoming filled with apprehension because of the youngest Finley’s non-committal. They observed a man who seemed distant about his place at the aquarium, although he did enjoy playing tour guide with visiting schoolchildren. A handful of employees still remembered how Mark’s late father (and grandfather) ran the aquarium with such vigor and pride. Even Mark’s older brother had done the best he could on a shoestring budget, but he saw the writing on the wall about the future of Finley Aquarium. To use a baseball analogy, and with everything in decline, Mark felt like he was strictly in for mop up duty.

Anything new about Bertha? asked Watkins.

Bertha was the nickname he and his co-employee, Gerald Isaacs, had given to the gargantuan cylinder tank many years ago. A pair of salty dogs, Watkins and Isaacs, old-time veteran employees, had both started right out of high school with the aquarium and never left. They were pulling for the newbie, but after eighteen months with the kid running the show, they could tell there was something missing.

On one past occasion, Watkins scoffed out loud to his coworker.

The problem is the guy just doesn’t have his dad or granddad’s joy for the sea. You either have saltwater in your veins, or you don’t.

I heard he doesn’t even like to eat fish, added Isaacs. I mean, how the heck do you work around fish all day and not like to eat ‘em?

Watkins, observing Mark’s distant stare, asked him again.

Mark took another swig of beer and replied about the cylinder tank. No, not yet; I would probably need to order a bunch of parts. At the moment, and in the foreseeable future, I don’t think we’ll have the funds. Try your best to fix her. Hopefully, one day we can get it up and running and put something worthwhile in there.

Tell you what, Mr. Finley, said Watkins, in a cursed tone. "I’ll get that son of a bitch up and running, but for God’s sake, you need to get off your duff and snag something worthwhile to put into it!"

Mark was taken aback by the blunt response.

Watkins reeled in his tone a bit. Sorry, boss, it’s just that…. We need a spark around here, or we’re all gonna be paying a visit to Davy Jones’s unemployment locker. You catch my drift?

Finley was now secretly referred to as the Grim Reaper by the remaining employees. With profits declining, he was forced to trim staff and rely heavily on volunteers to pick up the slack. Even the two elder statesmen at the aquarium were asked to expand their duties, ranging from transferring injured marine animals to helping out in the gift shop. Watkins was, in fact, now second in command.

I’m working on it, Darryl. I’m working on it, replied Mark.

Watkins wasn’t totally convinced. Well, you got a bunch of loyal people here who are counting on you. I’ve been working at this place during the good times and now the bad times. He took a breath, leaning up against the doorway. But you remember this, Mr. Finley; one thing can turn this whole place around. You may not remember because you were too young, but that great white shark made us the lead story on the TV news. Those turnstiles were spinning like airplane propellers.

Of course, I remember it, recalled Mark, vividly. This place was really hopping, all right.

He reminded Watkins to call him by his first name; no need to be so formal. Mark offered a chair for Watkins, who sat down with a thump. He leaned back, placing his hands behind his head.

You remember that time when I was seven or eight years old? You saved me when I accidentally fell into the pool full of nurse sharks.

Hell yeah, laughed Watkins, leaning an elbow against the desk. You were shaking like a wet dog, shivering all over.

No wonder I’m not a big fan of sharks, said Mark. You never mentioned it to my parents, did you?

Nope. Must have slipped my mind, replied Watkins, a muscular individual who had a bit of Denzel Washington in him. He recently purchased a partially restored Triumph motorcycle online and trucked it back from neighboring California. Boy, I knew your dad woulda been pretty upset, so I kept my mouth zipped tight like a clam.

I guess I still owe you one for that, right?

Just get this place back on its caudal, and we’ll call it even.

You know your anatomy, grinned Mark, knowing that caudal referred to a shark’s tail.

Watkins raised a brow. You’d be surprised what I know.

Mark glanced at the time and shrugged, feeling ashamed because he knew he wasn’t giving the aquarium his best effort.

Thirsty? asked Mark, as he offered the veteran employee a beer.

Watkins smiled. See? You’re off to good start already. Mark opened the bottle with a bronze shark shaped bottle opener he’d bought from the gift shop. The two clanked bottles. You know, Mr. Fin—I mean Mark, your grandfather and your father knew their stuff about the ocean, and that’s all well and good, but they had that extra quality about them.

And what was that? asked Mark, taking a sip of beer.

They both had a touch of Barnum & Bailey in ‘em. They knew how to sell this place to the public, to promote, get people to spend their hard-earned money to walk around here and look at a bunch of fish.

Yeah, I’m starting to understand that now, said Mark, but thinking it could be too little, too late. It’s just that I feel like I should be back teaching school kids, and not here. Unlike my dad and grandfather, I don’t even have a degree in marine biology. Mark shrugged. I just never felt that kinship to sea urchins and guitar fish.

Well, pardon the pun, young man, but you need to start playing a different tune, balked Watkins. Take a look around at what those men built. Generations of families have enjoyed this place, mine included.

Mark slouched, nodding his head in shamed agreement.

Watkins quickly polished off the beer, then stood up. You’re a decent man, Mark. You got a nice wife, two cute kids, although I’ve noticed your son can be a little pain in the butt sometimes.

Careful now, replied Mark, But you’re right on that account. Both men chuckled.

These are recyclable, right? inquired Watkins. He stepped outside the doorway, then turned around. It’ll come to you.

I hope so, Mark replied, sighing.

Maybe there’s something there on that wall that’ll inspire you; the history and stuff, offered Watkins. But first things first, you need to get off your keister to get it. It’s not gonna swim up to you and bite you in the ass.

I sure hope not. Mark stood up and shook his hand. Thanks for the pep talk; I needed it.

We’re all invested here, the sturdy man replied. Mark watched as Darryl ambled down the hallway, whistling a jazzy tune. Remember, keep the faith. His footsteps echoed as he approached the darkened exhibit hall.

Mark exhaled and sat back down. He finished off his beer and flipped open his outdated laptop, propping up the back of the screen with a large, pinkish conch shell. The back hinges were broken, so if he wasn’t careful, the screen would plop back down on the keypad, removing fingertips and all. Mark often joked his computer was so old you had to fire it up with coal. He needed a new computer and at least a dozen other things around the house. The list seemed to be multiplying like rabbits.

After killing some time browsing the Web, he spotted an interesting story. It had tabloids written all over it. "Ah yes, The Globe."

It was farfetched, but he started reading anyways. Mark shook his head but continued. Then his expression changed. The photo was out of focus, the elongated orange hued image somewhat blurred. Yet, the more he read, the more it stirred his curiosity. There was something peculiarly familiar about it. Hold on.

He skimmed the first paragraph again, reading it aloud. A man claims to have seen an orange colored shark, approximately eight or nine feet in length, near a remote lagoon somewhere near Kauai, Hawaii.

Mark knew that was about forty minutes, plus or minus, by air from Honolulu. He had an acquaintance, a former best friend and colleague of his late father, who owned a secluded motel nearby on the same island.

He continued reading. The man interviewed said the shark flashed before him in a lagoon near a dense coral reef and tried to attack him. He said it had the color of a gigantic goldfish. The man added that he scared it off with his spear gun, and the mysterious fish disappeared into deeper water.

Mark stood up and began scouting the bulletin board again, this time more intently. Where’s that damn picture? He panned his eyes up and down, back and forth along the maze of articles and highlights. Bingo!

The photograph featuring the supposed shark taken by his late grandfather was almost washed out, now resembling a Matthew Brady photo from the decades of exposed sunlight. According to his grandmother, her late husband had come across the fish and snapped a picture and mailed it back to her. It was the last correspondence she would ever receive from him.

Mark reached into one of the desk drawers and picked up a magnifying glass, inspecting the picture more intently. The shapes looked relatively similar. I wonder if that could be…. He shook his head but knew sharks lived for a long time. A recent story suggested the Greenland shark could live to the ripe old age of four-hundred years old.

There was a text from his wife, asking when he was getting home and to see if he could pick up milk and lettuce. Mark read it and sat back down, turning off the laptop. He slid open the top drawer filled with past due bills and vintage brochures that displayed better times at the aquarium. He took another sip of beer with thoughts of popping open another but thought otherwise. Usually, he’d be