AP® English Literature and Composition review sheet from Aim for Five (aimforfive.com/lit/units/1/1-4)
Unit 1 · Topic 1.4
1.4 Why a story tells events in this order
Writers decide how much background to give you, where to give it and in what order to tell events. Exposition, flashback, foreshadowing and starting in the middle of the action all change what you know and when you know it, which shapes suspense and points you toward what matters most.
Key terms
- exposition
- flashback
- foreshadowing
- in medias res
- narrative structure
- suspense
Story order versus telling order
Every story has two orders. One is the order the events happened in. The other is the order the writer tells them in. Those aren't always the same, and the gap between them is a choice you can analyze.
A mystery might begin with the body and work backward. A story about a marriage might open on the last day and slip back to the wedding. Each choice decides which questions you carry while you read.
Four tools for arranging events
| Tool | What it is | What it often does |
|---|---|---|
| Exposition | Background information about characters, setting and situation | Points your attention at the facts the writer thinks you'll need later |
| Flashback | A scene from earlier in time, placed inside the present story | Explains a character's motives or shows what has been lost |
| Foreshadowing | A hint about something that will happen later | Builds suspense or makes the ending feel earned, not random |
| In medias res | Latin for "in the middle of things": starting partway through the action | Throws you into tension right away; background comes later |
Exposition is a spotlight
Exposition isn't just a warm-up. Whatever a writer chooses to explain early is something they want you to keep in mind. If the first paragraph mentions that a character has a weak heart, a fear of water or a brother who left home, expect that fact to matter.
Exposition also tells you which relationships matter. If the opening spends three sentences on a character's mother and none on her husband, that balance is a clue.
Foreshadowing and suspense
Foreshadowing can be obvious, like a character saying "I have a bad feeling about this," or quiet, like a broken clock in the first scene of a story about running out of time. Quiet foreshadowing often becomes clear only on a second reading.
Suspense comes from what you don't know yet. A writer who reveals the ending first trades "what will happen?" suspense for "how did it happen?" suspense. Neither is better; they focus you on different things.
How to analyze an arrangement
- Ask what you learn first and what's held back.
- Ask what would change if the events were told in time order.
- Look for details early on that return later with new weight.
- Notice where a flashback starts and ends, and what triggers it.
Worked examples
Try each one yourself first, then open the solution.
- Example 1
Exposition that foreshadows the ending
Kate Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" (first published in Vogue in 1894, under the title "The Dream of an Hour") begins: "Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death." In the story, Mrs. Mallard grieves but then feels a surge of freedom at the thought of living for herself. At the end her husband walks in alive, and she dies; the doctors say she "had died of heart disease." Explain how the opening sentence's exposition shapes the story.
Show the solutionHide the solution
- Step 1: Find the exposition: two facts, delivered at once. She has "heart trouble," and her husband is believed dead.
- Step 2: Ask why the heart trouble comes first. It's the first thing we learn, before even the death. That placement tells us it will matter.
- Step 3: Follow it to the end. Her "heart trouble" returns as the official cause of death, so the opening plants the ending.
- Step 4: Notice the double meaning. "Heart" can mean the organ and the emotions. Her real trouble may be a marriage that confined her, which the doctors never consider.
Answer: Model paragraph: Chopin's first sentence puts Mrs. Mallard's "heart trouble" ahead of the news of her husband's death, and that ordering quietly shapes the whole story. Because we learn about her weak heart first, we expect the shock of grief to be the danger. Instead, the danger comes from the opposite direction: the return of a husband she has just imagined living without. When the doctors blame "heart disease," the exposition from the first line closes the circle, but with a twist. The reader, unlike the doctors, has seen what was really troubling her heart, so the opening's plain medical fact turns into the story's sharpest irony.
Common mistakes
- Skimming the opening as background you can ignore. Details placed early are often the ones that pay off at the end.
- Labeling a flashback or foreshadowing without saying what it does to the reader's understanding.
- Confusing foreshadowing with any event that happens before another. Foreshadowing is a hint, not just an earlier event.
On the exam
- Questions about structure often ask why a detail appears where it does, or how an early sentence relates to a later one. Reread both spots before choosing.
- In the prose essay, a comment on placement ("by opening with...", "by withholding until...") is an easy way to show you understand the writer's choices.
Connected topics
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Check yourself
4 questions on 1.4 Why a story tells events in this order. Pick an answer to see if you got it, and why.
Paragraph 1
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
Paragraph 2
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Paragraph 3
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Edgar Allan Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart” (1843)
Question 1 of 4
Early in paragraph 3, the narrator reveals that he “killed” the old man. Revealing this before describing the night of the crime mainly has which effect?
Paragraph 1
The woods were already filled with shadows one June evening, just before eight o’clock, though a bright sunset still glimmered faintly among the trunks of the trees. A little girl was driving home her cow, a plodding, dilatory, provoking creature in her behavior, but a valued companion for all that. They were going away from the western light, and striking deep into the dark woods, but their feet were familiar with the path, and it was no matter whether their eyes could see it or not.
Paragraph 2
There was hardly a night the summer through when the old cow could be found waiting at the pasture bars; on the contrary, it was her greatest pleasure to hide herself away among the high huckleberry bushes, and though she wore a loud bell she had made the discovery that if one stood perfectly still it would not ring. So Sylvia had to hunt for her until she found her, and call Co’! Co’! with never an answering Moo, until her childish patience was quite spent. If the creature had not given good milk and plenty of it, the case would have seemed very different to her owners. Besides, Sylvia had all the time there was, and very little use to make of it. Sometimes in pleasant weather it was a consolation to look upon the cow’s pranks as an intelligent attempt to play hide and seek, and as the child had no playmates she lent herself to this amusement with a good deal of zest. Though this chase had been so long that the wary animal herself had given an unusual signal of her whereabouts, Sylvia had only laughed when she came upon Mistress Moolly at the swamp-side, and urged her affectionately homeward with a twig of birch leaves. The old cow was not inclined to wander farther, she even turned in the right direction for once as they left the pasture, and stepped along the road at a good pace. She was quite ready to be milked now, and seldom stopped to browse. Sylvia wondered what her grandmother would say because they were so late. It was a great while since she had left home at half past five o’clock, but everybody knew the difficulty of making this errand a short one. Mrs. Tilley had chased the hornéd torment too many summer evenings herself to blame any one else for lingering, and was only thankful as she waited that she had Sylvia, nowadays, to give such valuable assistance. The good woman suspected that Sylvia loitered occasionally on her own account; there never was such a child for straying about out-of-doors since the world was made! Everybody said that it was a good change for a little maid who had tried to grow for eight years in a crowded manufacturing town, but, as for Sylvia herself, it seemed as if she never had been alive at all before she came to live at the farm. She thought often with wistful compassion of a wretched dry geranium that belonged to a town neighbor.
Paragraph 3
“‘Afraid of folks,’” old Mrs. Tilley said to herself, with a smile, after she had made the unlikely choice of Sylvia from her daughter’s houseful of children, and was returning to the farm. “‘Afraid of folks,’ they said! I guess she won’t be troubled no great with ’em up to the old place!” When they reached the door of the lonely house and stopped to unlock it, and the cat came to purr loudly, and rub against them, a deserted pussy, indeed, but fat with young robins, Sylvia whispered that this was a beautiful place to live in, and she never should wish to go home.
Paragraph 4
The companions followed the shady wood-road, the cow taking slow steps, and the child very fast ones. The cow stopped long at the brook to drink, as if the pasture were not half a swamp, and Sylvia stood still and waited, letting her bare feet cool themselves in the shoal water, while the great twilight moths struck softly against her. She waded on through the brook as the cow moved away, and listened to the thrushes with a heart that beat fast with pleasure. There was a stirring in the great boughs overhead. They were full of little birds and beasts that seemed to be wide awake, and going about their world, or else saying good-night to each other in sleepy twitters. Sylvia herself felt sleepy as she walked along. However, it was not much farther to the house, and the air was soft and sweet. She was not often in the woods so late as this, and it made her feel as if she were a part of the gray shadows and the moving leaves. She was just thinking how long it seemed since she first came to the farm a year ago, and wondering if everything went on in the noisy town just the same as when she was there; the thought of the great red-faced boy who used to chase and frighten her made her hurry along the path to escape from the shadow of the trees.
Paragraph 5
Suddenly this little woods-girl is horror-stricken to hear a clear whistle not very far away. Not a bird’s whistle, which would have a sort of friendliness, but a boy’s whistle, determined, and somewhat aggressive. Sylvia left the cow to whatever sad fate might await her, and stepped discreetly aside into the bushes, but she was just too late. The enemy had discovered her, and called out in a very cheerful and persuasive tone, “Halloa, little girl, how far is it to the road?” and trembling Sylvia answered almost inaudibly, “A good ways.”
Paragraph 6
She did not dare to look boldly at the tall young man, who carried a gun over his shoulder, but she came out of her bush and again followed the cow, while he walked alongside.
Sarah Orne Jewett, “A White Heron” (1886)
Question 2 of 4
Paragraph 3 differs from the paragraphs around it chiefly in that it
Paragraph 1
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
Paragraph 2
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
Paragraph 3
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
Paragraph 4
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.” The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Paragraph 5
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.
Paragraph 6
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Paragraph 7
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Paragraph 8
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
Paragraph 9
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
Paragraph 10
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
O. Henry, “The Gift of the Magi” (1905), from The Four Million (1906)
Question 3 of 4
The opening paragraph mainly establishes
Question 4 of 4
Paragraph 8, which describes the two possessions in which the couple “both took a mighty pride,” most likely serves to
0 of 4 answered