Tick tock goes the clock. Each minute represents a moment in our lives that we go through. Each toll of the bell means a different important event.

The bells, the bells, the bells. They ring at twelve times, symbolizing a new day. It is the day we wake up. The sun shines upon us at the moment of our choosing, and we open the windows to greet this grand new day.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell how many times the bell will ring, because the person ringing it is old. Older than us, older than the bell; he is Grandfather. He tells us what we are doing today by banging on the bell.

One strike is for food. When the bell reigns over the city, we eat. We feast until we can consume no more. Grapes and meats and vegetables of green and orange—yum! We pour vodka to give us a morning buzz and then tip the glasses to each other in celebration. It’s such a joyous occasion because we only get to eat once a day.

Afterwards, two hours from now, the bell strikes three times. I go straight to my work place—a shoe factory. I am designing a shoe that would change our city. Right now I sit at a wooden desk, waiting for an idea to strike lightening to me.

The bells, the bells, the bells. The bells start to ring again. How many times is it now? Everyone in the factory pauses to listen. It rings once, twice… three times, four! Is someone being married?

We all get ready to throw our hats up in the air in joy, when another ring sounds. We all stop, and lower our arms. It is not good.

The Mayans are coming. The bells have warned us. We must escape.

I open the door to the cellar stairway, running down it with my fellow workers. They scramble, some holding shoes, pumps, and boots. Others carried important paperwork that probably had great ideas written upon it.

Here we waited. Legs held in arms, we wait. Wait for the bells to tell us the outcome, what to do.

It seemed like forever without the bells. Where were the bells? Have they abandoned us?

The bells, the bells… They echoed in our heads. I rocked silently back and forth like an insane patient. I feared it was the last we’d hear of the bells.

The floors above us quivered from the brutal feet of Mayans and us. I could only hope for the best.

Hours passed—who knew anymore? It could have been days! I become claustrophobic in this damp environment, unable to stand it any longer.

I was just about to crawl out from the cellar when we heard it. The bells! They had come back!

Slowly, they rang. Once, twice, three times. Up to six, which we feared for the worst. The Mayans… had won?

And then, that last ring, the seventh ring, that symbolized a victory. We had won! We had won! Joyous of days!

I run up from the cellar to hear the bells ring again.

The bells.

The bells…