The Barista at the Threshold
The only thing keeping me upright was the forward momentum of panic. My lungs burned, my phone was a dead brick of ice in my pocket, and the shapes in the swirling snow were getting closer. Then I saw it: a single, steamy window promising warmth on a frozen stretch of Portage Avenue.
Introduction
This screenplay adaptation of 'The Barista at the Threshold' illustrates the critical bridge between prose narrative and production documentation, serving as a case study for digital literacy in media arts. By transforming a first-person, internal monologue into an observable, externalized script, we demonstrate how creative intent is preserved while adhering to the rigid syntax of industry-standard formatting. This exercise highlights the necessity of translating abstract sensory details—like 'cold seeping through seams'—into actionable visual cues for directors, actors, and cinematographers.
The Script
EXT. PORTAGE AVENUE - NIGHT
A WALL OF NOISE. The wind SCREAMS, a physical force driving horizontal snow through the darkness. Streetlights are gone. Swallowed.
ELLEN (13, parka failing, face raw from cold) stumbles forward. She clutches her chest. Her breath comes in jagged gasps.
She pulls a phone from her pocket. A frozen black rectangle. She taps it. Nothing.
She shoves it back and runs. She doesn't look at where she is going, only away from what is behind her.
BEHIND HER
Indistinct shapes slide through the drifts. Not people. Silhouettes of churning snow moving with unnatural speed. A high-pitched CRACKLE, like fracturing ice, cuts through the wind.
ELLEN
Her boot catches a hidden curb. She goes down hard.
She scrambles to her knees, looking back. A LANKY SILHOUETTE looms in the whiteout. Taller than a man. Dark at its core.
A light cuts the gloom.
A square of soft, yellow light. Gold lettering on frosted glass: *The Cafe on Portage*.
Ellen scrambles up, ignoring her leg. She throws herself at the heavy wooden door.
She yanks the brass handle. Frozen stuck. She slams her shoulder against the wood.
The ice gives with a heavy CLUNK.
INT. CAFE - CONTINUOUS
Ellen spills inside, sprawling onto a worn coir mat. The door swings shut, muffling the storm to a distant HUM.
Silence. Thick, heavy warmth. The smell of coffee and damp wool.
CATHY (50s, gray messy bun, serpent tattoo peeking from flannel sleeve) stands behind the counter. She wipes the wood with a damp cloth. Calm.
KEVIN (30s, parka, oblivious) sits at a small table. He types on a tablet, not looking up.
<center>CATHY</center>
Bit of a storm out there. Close the deadbolt, will you? Gets drafty.
Ellen pushes herself up. Her hands shake violently. She fumbles with the brass lock.
The bolt slides home with a solid THUD.
<center>CATHY</center>
You look like you could use something hot.
Cathy is already pouring. Dark liquid steams in a heavy ceramic mug.
Ellen peels off wet gloves. Her fingers are stiff, white. She reaches into her pocket. Withdraws a silver AMULET. It looks like a lump of cold metal.
She shoves it back into her jeans and moves to the counter. She slides onto a stool.
Cathy places the mug down.
<center>CATHY</center>
Hot chocolate. On the house. Drink up.
Ellen wraps both hands around the ceramic. She takes a sip. Color returns to her cheeks.
She stares into the mug. The steam swirls. It forms a perfect SPIRAL with a jagged line cutting through it.
Ellen blinks. The shape dissolves into a wisp.
<center>CATHY</center>
Funny how steam moves. Tells stories, sometimes.
<center>ELLEN</center>
(Hoarse)
What?
<center>CATHY</center>
Nothing. Where were you headed?
<center>ELLEN</center>
Home. The bus got stuck.
Kevin coughs dryly. Still typing.
AT THE WINDOW
Frost blooms across the glass. Not slowly. It races inward from the frame, thick and fern-like.
The CRACKING sound returns. Louder. Close.
Cathy stops wiping. She cocks her head.
<center>ELLEN</center>
What is that?
<center>CATHY</center>
The wind has teeth tonight.
The overhead lights FLICKER. They dim to a weak amber glow.
A GROAN of stressed wood echoes from the front wall.
Kevin finally looks up.
<center>KEVIN</center>
That’s not normal. This city needs to upgrade its grid.
<center>CATHY</center>
It’s not the grid.
Cathy presses her hands flat on the counter. Her knuckles are white.
A loud GUNSHOT CRACK echoes.
A fracture line splits the frosted window pane. Then another. Spiderwebbing.
The temperature plummets. Ellen’s breath becomes visible in the cafe air.
<center>KEVIN</center>
Okay, what the hell is going on? Is that from the cold?
Kevin stands, stepping toward the glass.
<center>CATHY</center>
Get away from the glass.
A SHAPE presses against the outside of the window. Gaunt. Too many joints. The glass bows inward.
Kevin scrambles back, tripping over his chair.
Ellen’s pocket glows. A soft, pulsating blue light.
She pulls out the amulet. It shines with intense white fire. The etched lines burn bright.
<center>CATHY</center>
Ellen. You need to focus that. Feel it. Don’t think. Just feel.
The window GROANS. A shard of glass pops out, tinkling onto the floor.
Snow blasts in.
The thing outside presses harder. Skeletal fingers of black ice push through the breach.
Ellen grips the amulet. She squeezes her eyes shut.
The amulet HUMS. A deep, vibrating power.
<center>ELLEN</center>
(Whisper)
No.
Ellen opens her eyes. She thrusts her hand forward.
A WAVE OF HEAT erupts from her palm. A blinding flash of blue-white light.
A high-pitched SHRIEK of agony tears through the air outside. The sound of scraping ice retreating.
The light fades.
The cafe lights buzz back to full brightness. The frost on the floor melts instantly into puddles.
Kevin is slumped against his table, hyperventilating.
<center>KEVIN</center>
What... what was that?
Ellen looks at her hand. The amulet is dull silver again.
Cathy walks around the counter. She doesn't look at the window.
<center>CATHY</center>
That was a temporary solution. They’ll be back. Stronger.
Cathy takes Ellen’s arm. Pulls her toward the back.
<center>CATHY</center>
Kevin. Your bill is comped. Go home. Lock your doors. Forget you saw this.
INT. STOCKROOM - CONTINUOUS
Stacks of coffee beans. Cardboard boxes. A plain steel door with a push bar at the far end.
<center>ELLEN</center>
Where are we going?
<center>CATHY</center>
You are going. I am a keeper of the threshold, not a traveler.
Cathy places a hand on the push bar.
<center>CATHY</center>
That door doesn’t lead to Portage Avenue anymore. Not for you.
<center>ELLEN</center>
How?
<center>CATHY</center>
Follow the cold. It has a center. Now, go.
Cathy pushes the bar. The door swings open.
EXT. FROZEN LANDSCAPE - CONTINUOUS
No alley. No dumpster.
A landscape of snow-covered trees stretches to the horizon under a bruised purple sky.
TWO MOONS hang in the air. One silver circle. One broken crescent.
In the distance, the Esplanade Riel bridge is coated in monstrous icicles.
Ellen stands on the threshold. One foot on the concrete floor of the stockroom, the other hovering over alien snow.
She takes a breath. The air is impossibly cold. Clean.
She steps through.
The steel door CLICKS shut behind her.
What We Can Learn
This adaptation highlights the challenge of translating internal sensory experiences into external, observable actions. In the source text, the protagonist feels a 'deep, invasive ache' and panic 'clawing its way up.' In the screenplay, these internal states must be externalized: the character 'stumbles,' 'clutches her chest,' and 'fumbles with the lock.' This forces the writer to rely on physical behavior to convey emotion, ensuring that the audience perceives the character's fear through visual evidence rather than narration.
The script demonstrates the importance of 'Invisible Technique' in camera direction. Instead of using amateur terms like 'CLOSE UP ON AMULET' or 'POV ELLEN,' the script uses paragraph spacing and capitalization to direct the reader's eye. By giving the 'frozen black rectangle' of the phone or the 'perfect SPIRAL' of steam their own distinct lines, the writer implicitly instructs the camera to focus on these details without breaking the immersion of the read, a critical skill for professional screenwriting.
From a media literacy perspective, this conversion reveals how genre expectations are built through pacing and environmental cues. The source text uses dense, descriptive prose to build dread ('swallowed,' 'screamed'). The screenplay replicates this tension through the '4-Line Rule,' breaking action into short, staccato beats that mimic the frantic energy of a chase. This structural manipulation controls the reader's reading speed, effectively synchronizing the time it takes to read the scene with the intended on-screen pacing.