I dedicate Yu.K.

There is a blessing in disguise, - said the Artist thoughtfully, crossing the threshold of his workshop, playing with a rose in his hand.

Someone had to give a rose. No one came to visit...

The artist poured water into an empty bottle, put a rose in it and placed it in the middle of his workshop.

And Rosa was left alone ...

Roses do not hurt when they are cut from the bush. Roses hurt when they are not needed.

Roses feel great, by appointment they fall into human hands, or as it is now - "there is no blessing in disguise."

Roses need trembling hands. Roses need gentle looks. Roses need warm words. Otherwise, they wither.

Our Rose proudly towered over the table in the artist's studio, but the first petal had already separated from the bud, ready to fall ...

And what, although it is banal, but there is something in it, - said the turquoise paint, - and this drop of dew on a leaf suits her so much ...

The colors have brightened up a bit. They were sincerely happy about the appearance of Rosa. The colors are clearly worn out.

It's good that it's cream, said the white paint, - a red rose, in my opinion, it's not just banal. This is not appropriate.

Why? - offended red paint woke up, - what is indecent in me? I just have my principles. Who is to blame for the fact that you have not had them for a long time?!

White paint began to prove to red that it also has its own principles. Aquamarine began to reconcile them. Other colors were also involved in the dispute. They began to run around the palette, converging and diverging, creating alliances, associations - in a word, the colors entered their usual way of life, and Rose became this very image of this very life. Even the center of it.

Of course, it would have been much better for Rosa if she had just been presented to the girl that evening, but the attention of colors also flattered her ...

She did not yet know how unfaithful the creative environment is, how insidious it is.

The artist threw a black marker on his desk, which he borrowed from a car mechanic friend to write down the phone number. (He slipped the marker into his jacket pocket mechanically.)

The artist threw a marker on his desk, straight to the paints, pencils, without thinking ...

The marker was as thick as an atomic bomb and covered in foreign inscriptions.

Our good-natured paints immediately reacted with interest to the stranger.

The marker was kept at a distance. It was definitely foreign, but it had been refueling for a long time in the domestic way, and he did not want the paints to get sniffed out.

The marker looked around. He didn't like it in the artist's studio. He was annoyed by the smells of paints (whether it was gasoline!), Annoyed by the palette with its elusive and incomprehensible shades. He looked at the faded pencils with contempt. And blank sheets of paper aroused anger in him.

And then he saw Rose...

He saw - and burst into laughter ... The fact is that he had seen roses before only on vulgar posters in his smoky garage.

In the artist's studio, after the marker laughed, a painful silence hung. Black paint broke it first.

How much youthful maximalism is in it! Social courage! Outrageous! Right! This is the only way to be truly creative! Go ahead, youth!

And indeed! - echoed her brown, "Mars" paint, - how long can you live according to these canons ?! We have been strangled by these conventions! Why is this hypocrisy?

But really, - the grassy paint intervened, - why exactly the Rose, and not a head of cabbage, for example? And what did we all find in it?

No, look how contemptuously she looks at all of us! - said the wax pencil, - she loves only herself!

And there is no benefit in it! - continued the grassy paint, - not like in cabbage!

And it expresses nothing but its own banality! - said the kolinsky brush, - even the bottle in which it stands is much more interesting than itself. In semi-darkness, from a certain angle of view, the contours of the bottle can resemble, for example, upturned female shoulders ... Why not an object of art ?!

And in complete darkness, darkness itself can become an object of art! said a dull voice from the void. And the colors faded again.

Everyone looked with horror at the black paint, but she was silent. And the marker didn't say that. Of all the few words he knew, which he had learned in the garage, not a single one, so far, was suitable to be inserted into a conversation in this society.

Down with Rose! Long live cabbage! shouted a dirty fork that had fallen behind the bed from the floor.

And the black marker cheerfully opened his mouth for his few words. Their time has come.

The Rose Petal, sadly planning, landed on the artist's table. Rose herself bowed her head.

Our Rose is clearly fading. Positively, no one needs her and there is no one here to stand up for her. It was quite clear that the rose would wither before dawn. Even before the controversy subsides.

Some paints or pencils openly gloated. For some, this was deeply indifferent. They were completely and completely in their high art and did not stoop to base squabbles. Some were annoyed by their cowardice and silence, but, nevertheless, they continued to be silent and cowardly ...

But there was also a pencil, a simple pencil. So, not even a pencil, but some kind of nervous stub ...

It hung in the gloomy corridor on the wall, on a thread, next to the telephone. With them, the artist sometimes wrote down phone numbers directly on the wallpaper, rather not fresh, signing capital letters to them, and even words. If the conversation on the phone dragged on and became interesting, the artist got carried away and began to draw with this pencil right there, on the wallpaper, women's heads, flowers, some huts on chicken legs ...

And it was this simple pencil that suddenly spoke.

What are you doing?! - he said. - You will be ashamed later, when the morning comes!

And who are you?! asked the kolinsky brush. Who gave you the right to speak? You're not even a member of our creative association!

Indeed, the pencil was not a member of the creative association of all these paints, pencils, brushes and other means of fine art, located on the artist’s table, who looked at this lonely wall pencil in much the same way as theater artists would look at a stage worker who suddenly raised his voice on rehearsals. But it is not true that the little pencil did not know creativity, did not know what fine art is! Ah, how in selfless creativity he forgot about hours, and even about days!

But who will look at greasy dirty wallpaper?!

Yes, I am not a member of your association, - said the Pencil, - but it is hardly possible to justify baseness by belonging to any association, even the highest one. And you humiliate her. See how she tilted her head, how she drops the petals?! You are killing her!

Do not listen to them, - turned the Pencil to Rosa, - there is no one more beautiful than you in the world! I will prove it!

I must say that Pencil's speech intrigued many.

I wonder how and what he is going to prove to us, - said the colors, - when he is tied to his wall? And who will let him in here? Unless it breaks off the leash?

Someone fearfully suggested that the Pencil was plotting a terrorist attack.

Someone sighed romantically. Many were secretly pleased that this bold Pencil had been found. He saved the honor of many noble colors. And since Pencil himself was of ignoble origin and was not a member of their associations, he did not compete with them.

One way or another, Rose did not wither that night. She lost two more petals, but during the night she straightened up proudly and became even slimmer than she was.

And in the morning, at the first rays of the sun, on the dirty and faded wallpaper in the corridor of the artist's workshop, everyone saw an amazing pencil drawing.

The picture was of a Rose, the same Rose, in a bottle of wine. Only in the picture it was, as it were, without thorns. And the drawing had the audacity to be very much like a dream...

More precisely, it was like a dream that did not want to dissipate when morning came and had the audacity to be.

And the day came like pain in the hand of a young man who, having blurted out the cherished words to his girlfriend, squeezed the stem of a rose in his hand, not feeling the thorns pierce his palm, not noticing how the snow at the foot of the Pushkin monument on Tverskoy Boulevard was watered with drops of blood. Like a duel...

And what was said to this young man in response, with which he was the highest granted and gifted, it was like a dream, in which it would be scary and bold to believe (when, having lit up with a smile, a girl ran away with a rose in her hand and disappeared into the crowd that suddenly appeared ), if not for this pain awakening in the hand! True pain!

The rays of the sun fell on Rose - and she reigned in the artist's studio.

Now no one even thought of encroaching on her absolute and unlimited monarchy.

But in general, not bad, - said the turquoise paint, - and not cloying ... and fresh ...

Yes, there is something in this sketch, - the white paint agreed.

Paints began to vigorously discuss the work of the pencil. Of course, it was not without sharp controversy. But it was obvious to everyone that the pencil fulfilled its promise, and this attracted considerable attention and respect to its person. Some of the crayons even suggested including a simple pencil in the creative pool. With a trial period, of course, and as a free candidate.

One way or another, but it was decided to invite the hero of the morning celebration to the society, so to speak ...

Only the pencil was no longer on a string, on the wall, where people used to see it.

Look, but he did break his bonds, this pencil ... It was not as simple as it seemed, this Simple Pencil, someone noticed.

Maybe it's already on the table? Already secretly joined the association. And, you see, already its chairman? someone chuckled in response.

But the pencil was not on the table. He was nowhere.

You look for it in vain, - yawning with its terrible mouth, said the old sharpener, - the pencil is all here, - she said, pointing up to the drawing, - and here, - she pointed down to the floor, where fresh pencil shavings lay, - that's all what's left of it...

Your pencil is used up. Whole!

I must say that many took this news with relief. And right there they began to talk about the posthumous enrollment of the pencil in a creative association, about the posthumous publication of his works ... and so on.

And only one Rose really lived as a Pencil, her brave Knight ...

... The artist took a sprayer and covered the rose with water dust, like a veil ...

For a second, the maestro froze, admiring her beauty ...

Then, in surprise, he took a black marker from the table, turned it over in his hands, sniffed it, and, wincing, tossed it into the trash can under the table.

In the same bucket, he carefully collected shavings from the floor.

Then the artist looked at the fresh pattern on the wallpaper, on which his eyes lingered more than usual. (He made this drawing during the last night's phone conversation with the same girl who was intended for our rose and who did not come on a date.)

Nervously walking around the room, the artist made a movement to the telephone, but stopped. Then he tore off a piece of wallpaper with a drawn rose from the wall, he wanted to throw it on the floor, but slowly tore off the wallpaper along the outline of the picture and carefully laid the picture on the table...

The artist smiled, winking at the revived and regally blooming Rose, and left his workshop ...

And only the Rose and only a simple Pencil remained in the workshop, which became a beautiful drawing, where now they were inseparably together, forever.

Today they were leaving for a distant and beautiful country, where there is no evil, where only good reigns.

The drawing lay on the table like a visa. And like stamps on a visa, dew drops plopped onto the drawing from the petals of the Rose ...

Registration number 0048192 issued for the work:

Once upon a time there were colored pencils in a cardboard box. There were eight brothers. They lived together, helped each other, did everything so that everyone was happy. They created drawings all together, because their work always turned out beautiful, bright, juicy. And the colors of the pencils were bright, each with its own: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, blue, purple and black.

Once the brothers argued about who is the most important in their work, the most important in the drawing, what color cannot be dispensed with. Yellow said loudly: “I am the most important, without me there is no sun, there will be no bright sunlight during the day, and at night you will be left without a moon.” Blue began to argue: “I am more important, because without me there will be no sky, and the sun lives in the sky ". Zeleny did not agree and was not going to retreat, he said that without him there would be no grass and trees, there would be a desert. Red was silent, then he also entered into an argument: “How do you imagine life without red? What about red roses, red heart, red lips, red sunset? Orange did not concede: “You won’t draw oranges without me, but children love them so much.” The blue pencil laughed and said: “How do you draw the sea without of blue color: I desired color". Violet was silent for a long time, after listening to everyone, he said: “You are needed, no doubt, but you can’t do without me, you can’t draw a lilac without me.” The black pencil did not enter into controversy until everyone had spoken out, then he said loudly: “All this is true, everyone is needed, but not a single paint can do without me, I bring, outline, shade, which means I am the most important.” The pencils argued for a long time, then the black one said: “Try to live without me”, Red came up with a way out of the situation and suggested this to the pencils: let everyone draw a picture of who they will contact more - the most important one.

The pencils set to work. Here yellow on his sheet drew the sun at the top and dandelions at the bottom of the sheet, in the middle of the house, he began to ask a blue pencil to help draw the sky, green - grass, red - flowers, blue - a river, orange - butterflies, purple - lilac bushes, black - tables trees. We looked at the drawing of pencils and realized that their strength is in unity, alone they are worthless.

Once upon a time there was a pencil on a wooden shelf. The most common, simple. Sharply honed, in a yellow camisole, with gold letters on the side. He lived. He looked at everyone from above and sighed slowly. Oh! Who needs it? What can he do in his life to please others? And I must say that the soul of the pencil was kind and soft, the golden letters on its side spoke of this, but the Pencil did not know this. And everything collapsed.

He once saw how a brush fell into the hands of the Master, how at first she was embarrassed by everyone, and then she swirled in a whirlwind of color, and she danced so brightly that she left a dazzling mark behind. There he is, hanging on the wall and everyone admires him. And the Brush is friends with a jar, and with paints, and with a sheet. And so they have fun, down there.

And the Pencil lies high, and there is no one with whom he can say a word. And he so wanted to press his head against a white sheet, and tell about his sadness. Get to know the soft and cheerful brush. Bow to a strict pot-bellied jar of water. After all, he was a well-bred Pencil.

And the trees rustled outside the window. On long, gray, winter evenings, the Master composed colorful and hot dances for Tassel, and the room was warm and sunny like on the sea coast.

And then, one day...

The master entered the room and flipped the switch. There was no light. Clicked a second time - nothing. Clicking for order a couple of times, the Master thoughtfully approached the window. The houses opposite are dark. The street became quite quiet. Evening quickly crept over the unlit city. It was darker in the room than in the yard, and outside the window one could clearly see the trunks of the trees and their arms spread out to the sides. They swayed a little in the wind and whispered softly among themselves.

The master stood in front of the window, then with a quick movement of his hand took our Pencil off the shelf and stood over a white sheet of paper. Pencil was embarrassed, he had never been so close to his dream. What do I need to do? Need to say something? say hello? The pencil was thinking frantically. The Master's hand slightly squeezed his slender body and, unaccustomed to such treatment, the pencil barely breathed.

The master carefully drew a line across a clean white sheet of paper. OOO! The Pencil groaned to himself. I ruined everything, after me the sheet became so dirty! What to do?

But the Master continued to lead the lines. They were short and long, sometimes the hand barely pressed on the Pencil, and then he could breathe freely, and sometimes they pressed him so that his breathing became intermittent. And the lines from this became different: either bold and shiny, or soft and slightly noticeable. The master plunged headlong into work, and the Pencil spun with a whirlwind of his movements. At some point, our modest Pencil realized that he enjoys every contact with the sheet, from the pressure of his hand on his camisole, from the little pauses that the Master makes. Lines, lines, dashes, dashes…. The pencil flew across the sheet of paper in different directions. This dance was delightful, charming, mysterious. Darkness, silence, tree branches outside the window. The dance began to fade. The movements of the Master's hand became more even, the pauses became longer.

And suddenly ... the light flashed. So bright that everyone around them closed their eyes, and the Brush, and the Paints, and the can of water. A White list, lay and trembled a little. A second later, when everyone opened their eyes, a light whisper swept over the table. The pencil was still in the Master's hand, and he raised it to his lips and chuckled approvingly. A thoughtful smile played on the Master's lips.

And I saw the Pencil white sheet. And I saw my footprints on it. And gasped! The dark trees outside the window were magically transferred to a sheet of paper, they lived their lives there, they swayed in the wind, they breathed, they blew in the spring!!! And he did it! Pencil!

The Master chuckled once more and put the Pencil in the stand next to the Brush.

"Good evening, Pencil!" - Oh, happiness, Tassel talked to him! - “You danced so beautifully that we all followed your dance with bated breath. It was so magical!!! The jar shed tears, The paints dried up from stress, and I stretched out all to attention, looking at your footprints. And the leaf, look at it, it all began to curl up into a tube with happiness.

And indeed, the edges of the sheet trembled and curled up a little. "Thank you for such a wonderful evening!"

“What happiness,” thought the Pencil, “someone needs me too!” But he did not say this aloud, because he had a very thin and soft soul, as the golden letters on his camisole spoke of, but it was no longer important.

Irina Shutova

Despite the folk wisdom known for centuries that “Truth is born in a dispute”, life often proves the opposite. An argument is expedient in scientific aspects, in a person’s life they often argue with their hearts ...

However, the dispute is a part of our life and children argue with each other and with us too often. But we know that the most subtle issues with children are completely solvable. I invite you today to the world of fairy tales. Let's take a walk in fantasy land and along the way show the children in which direction it is best to direct the dispute that has arisen. A fairy tale about a dispute of pencils awaits you.

Fairy tale "Once in a box of pencils ..."

In a large store they were sold in a beautiful red-orange-yellow box. Outside, they looked like ordinary pencils, but if you manage to eavesdrop on their conversation, you can hear this:

I am yellow, and better than you, I can paint the sea. After all, it was not in vain that one buyer talked about some kind of Yellow Sea, - a yellow pencil exclaimed vehemently.

- And I, and I will take and paint the dandelions blue. You will get forget-me-nots. Here! – retorted to him in the answer Blue.

Yellow was about to say something else, but at that moment the saleswoman took the box in her hands and handed it to the tall, dark-haired woman.

My son loves to draw so much. Entire adventures live in his drawings. she said.

The pencils are silent. They were so happy that they would finally draw with them that they forgot all the disagreements and disputes, and they didn’t even want to talk, otherwise the woman would change her mind about taking them.

But after half an hour, the cherished box was handed over to the five-year-old boy Arseniy, who even jumped for joy when he opened the box and saw a slender row of colored sharp-sharpened pencils.

- Thank you mom! - the little one exclaimed and sat down at the table, on which there was already a white sheet of paper.

He carefully dumped his pencils on the table. He picked up a yellow pencil, and, thinking for a moment, drew a circle in the upper left corner. But suddenly he noticed that the circle turns blue. He once again looked at the selected pencil, no, it was yellow, and the core was yellow, but he draws in blue! That's how miracles are!

- This is not the sun, but some unknown planet turns out ... - said the boy.

And the yellow pencil itself could not understand what was wrong with it. “I must be sick, I am,” he thought sadly.

Meanwhile, Arseny picked up a blue pencil with a blue stem and drew a wavy horizontal line on a sheet. AND…. the planned sea has become Yellow!

- Oh, this is not the sea, but some kind of yellow sand ... just like a desert! - exclaimed the boy, whom the unusual transformations of pencils began to only amuse.

The yellow and blue pencils looked at each other and could not understand what was happening. And Arseniy at that time already understood what the problem was and said:

- Well, if you don't want to draw as it should be, what would be an unknown country ... Sporia. But, I will still reconcile you, - the artist said mysteriously and picked up both pencils at once.

In a moment, a large bright juicy green cactus grew on the yellow sand!

We are giving birth together green color! the pencils exclaimed happily. And they drew another smaller cactus.

“Listen,” Yellow said slowly, “let's not quarrel. After all, both the yellow sun and the blue sea are beautiful.

“And green leaves and grass,” Blue Pencil continued.

Since then, they have not quarreled and painted each with their own color. And the boy grew up and became a famous artist of extraordinary paintings with extraordinary countries, planets and landscapes.

Discuss the story with your child. It's great to try to draw a fairy tale with colored pencils! Or just make the main characters - yellow and blue pencils out of paper and put them in your favorite book with fairy tales.

Read even more of my fairy tales under the heading "" or download my books with fairy tales.

Fairy-tale mood and peace in your families!

With love,

There lived a simple pencil. He lived for himself, and then one day he met a beautiful hand. She was all pink and shiny.

The pencil approached the pen and said:
- Let's be friends.
“Here it is,” the pen answered him.
You are so simple, and I am beautiful. I won't be friends with you.
And the pen is gone.

He saddened the pencil and went his own way. Suddenly he saw something shining on the road. He came closer and saw that it was a puddle of pink shiny ink, which was left behind by a beautiful pen. The pencil was smeared with this ink and also became beautiful.

And at this time, the same pen passed by. She saw a beautiful pencil, she really liked it, because it was the same as her - pink and shiny. She went to the pencil and said:
- Let's be friends.

The pencil agreed. And they began to walk everywhere together, talking about everything in the world, playing, laughing, having fun, indulging, showing tricks to each other. And suddenly they fell into a puddle. The ink was washed off the pencil, and it became plain again.
The pen was angry because he had deceived her, and said:

- I will leave you because you are simple, and you deceived me. You smeared yourself with my ink and left it like that. I am no longer friends with you.

After that, she met other beautiful pencils, but they did not want to be friends with her. Some said they were prettier than her. Others said that they were pencils, and she was a pen, and therefore would not be friends with her.

Some more said: "Fu, you are somehow brilliant, and we are red, blue, lilac." Still others agreed to be friends with her, but they were so boring and uninteresting that the pen itself left them. Then she went to the very last pencil.
He said:

- Well, let's make friends a little.
They walked for a bit and he said:
- I did not like. I won't be friends with you.
Then the pen realized that she was interested only with a simple pencil.

The pen was offended and ran rather to that simple pencil, he walked slowly and did not even move a couple of steps away from the puddle.
Then a pen came up to him and said:

Let's be friends with you, everyone else is worse than you.
Pencil said:
- Is it true? Forgive me too. I deceived you when I smeared myself with beautiful ink. I just wanted to please you. And they became friends again.

Then the bell rang, all the students quickly immediately took the unknown pencils that they had on their desks, put them in their pencil cases and went home, because it was the last lesson, and it ended. And one girl took this pencil and pen, put them side by side in a beautiful pencil case and went home. So, a pen with a pencil each time fell into one pencil case, and the pen was next to the pencil, and the pencil with the pen. This is how the tale ended.

Zlokazova Taisiya Andreevna (7 years old),
Yekaterinburg city