Dedicated to Yu.K.

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

There was no one to give a rose to. Nobody came on a date ...

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

And Rose was left alone ...

Roses don't hurt when they are cut from the bush. Roses hurt when they are not needed.

Roses feel great, for their intended purpose they fall into human hands, or as now - "every cloud has a silver lining."

Roses need trembling hands. Roses need gentle looks. Roses need kind 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 that, even though it is banal, there is something in her, - said the turquoise paint, - and this dew drop on a leaf suits her so well ...

The colors brightened somewhat. They were sincerely glad to see Rosa. The paints were clearly bored.

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

Why? - the offended red paint woke up, - what is indecent in me? I just have my own 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 in opinions and diverging, creating alliances, associations - in a word, 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 simply been presented to the girl that evening, but the attention of colors flattered her too ...

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

The artist threw a black marker on his desk, which he took from an auto mechanic he knew, to write down his phone number. (He automatically slipped the marker into his jacket pocket.)

The artist threw a marker on his desk, right 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. He was definitely foreign, but he had been refueling for a long time already in a domestic fashion, and he did not want the colors to sniff out.

The marker looked around. He didn't like the artist's studio. He was irritated by the smells of paints (whether it was gasoline!), Irritated by the palette with its elusive and incomprehensible shades. He looked contemptuously at the faded pencils. And the blank sheets of paper made him angry.

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.

A painful silence hung in the artist's studio after the marker laughed. Black paint broke it first.

How much youthful maximalism there is! Social courage! Outrageous! Correctly! This is the only way real creativity can be! Go for it, youth!

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

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

No, look with what contempt she looks at all of us! - said the wax pencil, - she loves only herself!

And there is no use in it! - continued the herbaceous paint, - not like in cabbage!

And she expresses nothing but her own banality! - said the kolinsky brush, - even the bottle in which she is standing is much more interesting than herself. In semi-darkness from a certain angle of view, the contours of the bottle may resemble, for example, upturned women's hangers ... Isn't it an object of art ?!

And with complete darkness, darkness itself can become an object of art! a dim voice said from the void. And the colors died down again.

Everyone looked with horror at the black paint, but she was silent. And it wasn't the marker that said it. Of all the few words he knew, which he had learned in the garage, none of them had fit yet to fit into a conversation in this society.

Down with the Rose! Long live the cabbage! - a dirty fork shouted from the floor, falling behind the bed.

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

The rose petal sat down sadly on the artist's desk. And Rose herself bowed her head.

Our Rose is clearly withered. Positively, no one needs her and no one here stood up for her. It was quite clear that the rose would wither before dawn came. Even before these debates subside.

Some paints or crayons outright gloated. To some, all this was deeply indifferent. They were completely and completely in their high art and did not descend to low squabbles. Some were annoyed at 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 was hanging in the semi-gloomy corridor on the wall, on a string, near the phone. The artist sometimes wrote them down directly on the wallpaper, which was not quite fresh, phone numbers, signing them in capital letters, or 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, female heads, flowers, some kind of 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 morning comes!

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

Indeed, the pencil was not a member of the creative union of all these paints, pencils, brushes and other means of fine art that are on the artist's desk, which looked at this lonely wall pencil approximately the same way as theater artists would look at a stage worker who suddenly cast his voice on rehearsals. But it is not true that the pencil did not know creativity, did not know what fine art is! Oh, how in selfless creativity he forgot about hours, and even about days!

But who will look at the greasy dirty wallpaper ?!

Yes, I am not a member of your association, - said 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 bent her head, how she drops her petals ?! You are killing her!

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

I must say that Karandash's speech intrigued many.

I wonder how and what is he going to prove to us, the paints said, when he is tied to his wall? And who will let him in here? What will break off the leash?

Someone fearfully suggested that Pencil was plotting a terrorist attack.

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

One way or another, but Rose did not fade that night. She lost two more petals, but during the night she proudly straightened up 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 studio, everyone saw an amazing pencil drawing.

The drawing depicted a Rose, the same Rose, in a wine bottle. Only in the picture she was, as it were, without thorns. And the drawing had the daring to be very similar to a dream ...

More precisely, it was like a dream that did not want to dissipate at the onset of the morning and had the daring to be.

And the day came like a 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 piercing his palm, not noticing how the snow at the foot of the Pushkin monument on Tverskoy Boulevard was irrigated with drops of blood. Like a duel ...

And what was said to this young man in response, what he was bestowed and gifted with, it was like a dream in which it would be scary and audacious to believe (when, illuminating with a smile, the girl ran away with a rose in her hand and disappeared into the suddenly illuminated crowd ), if not for this pain awakening in the hand! Sure pain!

The sun's rays fell on the 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, - agreed the paint white.

The paints began to discuss the work of the pencil. Of course, it was not without sharp controversy. But it was obvious to everyone that the pencil had fulfilled its promise, which also attracted considerable attention and respect to its person. Some of the crayons even suggested including a simple pencil in the creative team. With a probationary period, of course, and as a free candidate.

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

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

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

Maybe he'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 to be found.

You are in vain looking for him, - yawning with her 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 there were fresh pencil shavings, - that's all what is left of him ...

Your pencil is used up. All!

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

And only one Rose really lived with 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, grimacing, tossed it into the trash can under the table.

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

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

Walking nervously around the room, the artist made a move to the phone, but stopped. Then he tore off a piece of wallpaper with a painted rose from the wall, was about to throw it on the floor, but slowly tore off the wallpaper along the outline of the drawing and carefully laid the drawing on the table ...

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

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

Today they left for a distant and beautiful country, where there is no silver lining, where only goodness reigns.

The drawing lay on the table like a visa. And like stamps for a visa, dew drops splashed onto the drawing from the rose petals ...

Registration number 0048192 issued for the work:

There lived 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 were arguing over who is the most important, the most important in their work, the most important, what color is indispensable. The yellow one loudly said: “I am the most important, there is no sun without me, there will be no bright sunlight during the day, and at night you will remain without the moon.” The blue one 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 did not intend to retreat, he said that without him there would be no grass and trees, there would be a desert. Red was silent, and then he 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 cannot draw oranges without me, but children love them so much." The blue pencil laughed and said: “How can 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 spoke out, then he said loudly: “All this is true, everyone is needed, but not a single paint can do without me, I let me down, outline, shade, which means I am in charge”. 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 he suggested to the pencils this: let everyone draw a picture, who will be addressed more - the most important one.

The pencils went to work. Here yellow on his sheet painted 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 pencil drawing and realized that their strength lies in unity, alone they are worthless.

Once upon a time there was a pencil on a wooden shelf. The most common, simple. Sharply perfected, in a yellow camisole, with golden letters on the side. He lived and 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 about this, but Pencil did not know this. And he was all distressed.

He once saw how a brush fell into the hands of the Master, how at first she was ashamed of everyone, and then swirled her in a colored whirlwind, and she danced so brightly that she left a dazzling mark after herself. There he is, hanging on the wall and everyone admires him. And Brush is on friendly terms with the can, and with paints, and with a sheet. And so they have fun, down there.

And the Pencil lies high, and he has no one to say a word to. And he so wanted to press his head against the white sheet and tell about his sadness. Get to know the soft and fun brush. Bow to a strict pot-bellied jar of water. After all, he was brought up by Pencil.

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

And so, one day ...

The master entered the room and flipped the switch. There was no light. I clicked a second time - nothing. Having clicked a couple of times to order, the Master went to the window in thought. The houses opposite are dark. The street became completely quiet. The evening quickly crept into the unlit city. It was darker in the room than in the courtyard, and outside the window, the trunks of trees and their branches-arms, spread out to the sides, were clearly visible. They swayed slightly 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 froze 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 feverishly. 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 blank white sheet of paper. LTD! Pencil groaned to himself. I ruined everything, after me the sheet got so dirty! What to do?

But the Master continued to lead the lines. They were short and long, sometimes the hand pressed on the Pencil just barely, and then he could breathe freely, and sometimes they were pressed on 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 went headlong into work, and a whirlwind of his movements spun the Pencil. At some point, our humble Pencil realized that he gets pleasure from every contact with the sheet, from the pressure of his hand on his jacket, from the small pauses that the Master makes. Lines, lines, dashes, dashes…. The pencil flew on the sheet of paper in different directions. This dance was delightful, charming, mysterious. Darkness, silence, tree branches outside the window. The dance began to subside. The Master's hand movements became smoother, the pauses became longer.

And suddenly ... a light flashed. So bright that everyone around them closed their eyes and the Brush, and Paints, and a can of water. AND white list, lay and trembled slightly. And 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 the Master raised it to his lips and grunted approvingly. A wistful smile played on the Master's lips.

And I saw a white sheet of pencil. And I saw my footprints on it. And he 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 breathed in spring !!! And He did it! Pencil!

The Master grunted again in satisfaction and put the Pencil in the stand next to the Brush.

"Good evening, Pencil!" - Oh, happiness, Kistochka was talking to him! “You danced so beautifully that we all watched your dance with bated breath. It was so magical !!! The jar shed tears, The paints dried out from the stress, and I was all drawn to a string, looking at your tracks. And the leaf, look at him, he began to curl up into a tube with happiness ”.

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

"What happiness, - thought Pencil, - I also need someone!" But he didn’t say it out loud, because he had a very delicate and soft soul, as the golden letters on his jacket spoke of, but that didn’t matter anymore.

Irina Shutova

Despite the popular wisdom known for centuries that "In a dispute, truth is born", life often proves the opposite. The dispute is expedient in scientific aspects, in a person's life they often argue with the heart ...

However, the dispute is a part of our life and children argue with each other and with us, too, quite often. But we know that the most delicate issues with children can be solved. I invite you to the fairy tale world today. We will take a walk in the land of fantasies and along the way we will show the children in which direction it is best to direct the arisen dispute. A fairy tale about a pencil dispute awaits you.

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

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

- I am yellow, and better than you, I can paint the sea. After all, it's not for nothing that one buyer was talking about some kind of Yellow Sea, - the yellow pencil exclaimed fiercely.

- And I, and I will take and paint the dandelions blue. Get forget-me-nots. Here! Blue retorted back.

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

- My son, he loves to draw so much. Whole adventures live in his drawings. She said.

The pencils fell silent. They were so happy that they would finally paint with them that they forgot all the disagreements and disputes, and did not even want to talk, otherwise the woman would suddenly change her mind about taking them.

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

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

He carefully poured the pencils onto 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 out to be blue. He once again looked at the selected pencil, no, it was yellow, and the rod is yellow, but draws in blue! That's how miracles!

- 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. “Apparently I’m ill,” he thought sadly.

And Arseny, meanwhile, took a blue pencil with a blue rod in his hands and drew a wavy horizontal line on the sheet. AND…. the planned sea has turned Yellow!

- Oh, this is not the sea, but some kind of yellow sand ... like a desert! - exclaimed the boy, who was only amused by the extraordinary transformations of pencils.

The yellow and blue pencils glanced at each other and could not understand what was happening. And Arseny at this time already understood what the problem was and said:

- Well, since you do not want to paint as it should be, let there be an unknown country ... Dispute. But, I will reconcile you all the same, - the artist said mysteriously and took both pencils in his hands at once.

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

- We give birth together green color! The pencils exclaimed happily. And drew another smaller cactus.

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

“And green foliage and grass,” continued the Blue Pencil.

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 from paper and put them in your favorite book with fairy tales.

Read more of my fairy tales in the "" section or download my books with fairy tales.

A fabulous mood and peace in your families!

With love,

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

The pencil came up to the pen and said:
- Let's be friends.
- Here's another, - answered him the pen.
- You are so simple, and I am beautiful. I will not be friends with you.
And the pen was gone.

Saddened pencil and went his own way. Suddenly he saw that something glittered on the road. He came closer and saw that it was a pool of pink glittering ink, which was left behind by a beautiful pen. The pencil smudged in 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 just like her - pink and shiny. She went to the pencil and said:
- Let's be friends.

Pencil agreed. And they began to walk everywhere together, talked about everything in the world, played, laughed, had fun, dabbled, showed tricks to each other. And suddenly they fell into a puddle. The ink washed off the pencil, and it became simple again.
The pen got angry because he deceived her and said:

- I'll leave you because you are simple, and you deceived me. You smeared yourself in my ink and left it that way. I'm 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.

Still others said: "Fu, you are some kind of brilliant, but 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 took a little walk and he said:
- I did not like. I will not be friends with you.
Then I realized the pen that she was only interested in a simple pencil.

The pen got offended and ran quickly to that simple pencil, it walked slowly and did not even leave the puddle for a couple of steps.
Then a pen came up to him and said:

- Let's be friends with you, everyone else is worse than you.
Pencil said:
- True? Forgive me, too. I deceived you when I smeared myself in 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 there was the last lesson and it was over. And one girl took these pencil and pen, put them side by side in a beautiful pencil case and went home. So, a pen and a pencil each time fell into one pencil case, and the pen was next to the pencil, and the pencil was with the pen. This is how this tale ended.

Zlokazova Taisiya Andreevna (7 years old),
Yekaterinburg city