The Woodpile Rule

The axe felt honest. Cold steel, heavy oak, a straight line of force. Everything else was a lie, and the cold was the only thing that didn't care.

Introduction

This screenplay adaptation of "The Woodpile Rule" serves as a practical exercise in translating internal prose narrative into external cinematic action, directly supporting our project's goal of enhancing digital literacy through the mechanics of screenwriting. By converting Silas's introspective thoughts on isolation and routine into observable behaviors and environmental details, this script demonstrates how character psychology is revealed through action rather than exposition.

The Script

EXT. FOREST CLEARING - DAY

The world is white. Endless, suffocating snow covers the pines.

SILAS (47) stands before a chopping block. He is a man eroded by time, his face wind-burned, beard flecked with ice. He wears a heavy, worn coat.

His breath plumes in the freezing air. Thick. White.

He lifts a heavy steel maul.

He brings it down.

CRACK.

A round of birch splits perfectly in two. The halves tumble into the snow.

Silas exhales. A sharp grunt.

He grabs another log. Sets it. Finds the grain.

Swings.

CRACK.

The rhythm is mechanical. Brutal. One breath. One swing.

His hands are raw inside leather gloves. He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow, leaving a smear of dirt on his skin.

He reaches for another log.

Then—

A SOUND.

Low. Grinding. Mechanical.

An engine in low gear.

Silas freezes. The maul stays gripped in his hand. He does not look toward the road.

He stares at the chopping block. His body is rigid. A statue in the snow.

The engine noise grows louder. Closer. Then it CUTS OUT.

Silence returns.

A car door OPENS. Then CLOSES. Sharp in the thin air.

Silas lifts the maul.

He swings.

CRACK.

He sets the maul against the block and finally looks up.

LENA (40s) stands at the edge of the clearing. She wears a dark grey woolen coat, stylish but worn with indifference. Her face is pale, pinched by cold. Hands deep in her pockets.

She watches him. She doesn't move.

Silas pulls off his gloves. He blows on his raw, split knuckles.

<center>SILAS</center>

The roads are bad.

I managed.

Her breath puffs in the air. Neat. Concise.

You look healthy.

<center>SILAS</center>

The air is clean. The work is honest.

He gestures vaguely to the wall of stacked firewood lining the path.

We need you.

Silas lets out a short, barking LAUGH. No humor in it.

<center>SILAS</center>

We? There is no "we", Lena. I’m a line item. A contingency. And the contingency hasn’t happened.

He grabs a split log. He walks toward the cabin, ignoring her.

Lena follows. Her boots CRUNCH on the packed snow.

Something’s happened. Minsk.

Silas stops. His hand hovers inches from the cabin door latch.

He stands absolutely still.

<center>SILAS</center>

Minsk is over.

A loose end has unraveled. The Chimera network. It's active.

Silas turns slowly. His face is stone.

<center>SILAS</center>

Active?

Hunting. They got Petrenko in Kyiv last week. Car bomb.

Silas stares past her. Into the dark green of the treeline.

<center>SILAS</center>

Petrenko.

And they’re coming for you. The "Hermit". That’s what they called you in the intercept.

Silas leans back against the rough logs of the cabin wall. He looks at the beautiful, frozen prison around him.

<center>SILAS</center>

So you came to warn me. Kind of you. I’ll lock the door.

Not a warning. A tasking. We have a source. The man reactivating the network.

Silas looks down at his hands. The calluses. The bloodied knuckles.

<center>SILAS</center>

No.

It’s not a request.

<center>SILAS</center>

Everything’s a request when you’re talking to a man holding the axe.

He looks her in the eye. Dangerous.

<center>SILAS</center>

I did my time. Minsk was the end.

Lena steps closer. The cold has brought color to her cheeks.

It’s Julian.

The name hangs in the air. Heavier than the snow.

Silas blinks. Once.

<center>SILAS</center>

Julian’s dead.

He was playing us. He fed us Petrenko to clear his own path. And now he’s tying up loose ends.

She holds his gaze.

He’s not just the target, Silas. He’s the bait. And he’s asking for you by name.

Silas looks at the woodpile. The rows of perfect, split logs. The order. The honesty.

The wind picks up, whistling through the pines.

FADE OUT.

What We Can Learn

This adaptation highlights the challenge of translating internal monologue into observable action. In the source text, Silas's feelings about the "Woodpile Rule"—the desire for a life with no subtext—are described through introspection. In the screenplay, this is externalized through the ritualistic violence of the chopping and his focus on the physical grain of the wood. The "good pain" described in the prose is visually represented by his raw knuckles and the specific way he leans against the cabin wall, allowing the audience to infer his physical and emotional toll without voiceover narration.

From a technical perspective, the scene demonstrates the critical role of sound design in establishing tension. The script utilizes the stark contrast between the natural, rhythmic sounds of the forest (the breath, the axe impact) and the intrusive, mechanical sound of the car engine. This auditory shift acts as the inciting incident, signaling the invasion of the modern, dangerous world into Silas's primitive sanctuary before a single word of dialogue is spoken.

The dialogue construction illustrates the principle of subtext over exposition. Characters do not state exactly what they mean; they use professional shorthand to mask their emotions. When Silas says, "The roads are bad," he is actually saying, "You shouldn't be here." When Lena replies, "I managed," she means, "I am not leaving." This economy of language preserves the tension and reflects the guarded nature of intelligence operatives, forcing the audience to actively interpret the power dynamics at play.