Krista Randall
How I Met Krista R., My New Love on a Broomstick
A whimsical satirical love story from the woods, with charm, broomsticks, woodland witnesses, and one very strange evidence trail.
They say love finds you when you least expect it.
In my case, it nearly took my hat off while flying past me on a broomstick.
I was walking through the enchanted woods of New Brunswick, minding my own business and thinking deep philosophical thoughts, such as whether crows are secretly judging us, when suddenly I heard a sound above me.
It was not a bird. It was not a plane. It was not even one of those enormous Fundy mosquitoes that looks like it has a mortgage and a criminal record.
It was Krista R.
She came sweeping through the trees with the confidence of someone who clearly knew her way around a broomstick. Elegant. Mysterious. Slightly dangerous in the way a person is dangerous when she owns both candles and strong opinions.
Naturally, I was intrigued.
She landed as smoothly as a leaf touching the forest floor and introduced herself with the kind of smile that makes a man stop asking practical questions.
There are moments in life when logic simply steps aside, removes its glasses, folds them neatly, and says, “Ross, you are on your own now.”
This was one of those moments.
Krista had a way of making ordinary things feel magical. Tea seemed warmer around her. The woods seemed brighter. Animals appeared to know her personally. Once, a squirrel handed her an acorn and she accepted it with the calm dignity of someone receiving official correspondence.
I did not know who she had been chasing through the skies before she found me. I did not know what ancient wizard drama, broomstick jealousy, or enchanted internet foolishness had brought her into my orbit.
All I knew was this: if I had ever been confused before, I was now suddenly, violently, comedically certain.
Straight to bed with Krista R.
A small note for the record: this is satire, not a biography, not a confession, and certainly not a reliable guide to forest dating.
Any resemblance to actual broomstick events, living wizards, online goblins, or woodland legal proceedings is probably best handled with a cup of tea and a careful sense of humour.
At first, I assumed Krista was simply charming, eccentric, and unusually well-connected among woodland creatures.
But every witch has a history.
Before the romance, before the broomstick rides, before I found myself clinging to the back of a flying household object while whispering, “I suppose this is my life now,” there had been another presence in the background.
The Wizard.
Not the wise kind of wizard. Not the Gandalf kind, arriving with fireworks, wisdom, and excellent posture.
No, this was more of a keyboard wizard. The kind who hovers around the edge of other people’s suffering, muttering little spells into comment boxes and mistaking passive aggression for sorcery.
He had a wand, perhaps. He had a robe, presumably. But most of all, he had a hobby: making himself relevant in places where relevance had not invited him.
Taken during the early transition days — stage one or four, depending on which enchanted filing system is being consulted. She is a strong woman and really took to everything like a duck to water. I'm proud of my big girl.
Krista, to her credit, seemed entirely unimpressed by old wizard nonsense.
“Do not worry about him,” she said, adjusting her hat with the serene authority of a woman who has seen enough nonsense to start charging admission.
“He follows shadows,” she continued. “I fly.”
That was the first moment I realized she was not just magical. She was practical.
And as every man eventually learns, practical magic is the most dangerous kind. It does not merely sparkle. It gets things done.
She brewed the tea. She lit the fire. She parked the broom by the door like a Honda Civic with emotional problems. Then she looked at me and said, “Well? Are you coming or not?”
I considered my options carefully.
Then I got on the broom.
From Love Story to Evidence Archive
Of course, no modern fairy tale is complete without receipts.
Once upon a time, stories ended with a kiss, a castle, or a curse being lifted. Now they end with screenshots, timestamps, suspicious comment patterns, strange emails, and the lingering feeling that someone, somewhere, has been stirring the cauldron a little too enthusiastically.
So yes, this began as a ridiculous love story about Krista R., a broomstick, and a man who was perhaps too willing to be carried away by moonlight and poor judgment.
But like many strange stories, it also brushes against something less cute: the odd behaviour that gathers around a person when he starts documenting things that other people would rather keep foggy.
The comedy remains. The broomstick remains. The woodland creatures remain deeply invested.
But underneath the joke is a simple point: when the same strange patterns keep appearing, it is worth writing them down.
Krista Randall, meanwhile, remains the most delightful part of the whole affair.
She is not bothered by trolls. She is not impressed by wizards. She does not confuse noise with power.
She simply tightens her boots, straightens her hat, and takes off over the trees while the rest of us are still trying to remember our passwords.
And there I am, holding on for dear life, wondering how a man can go from checking his blog comments to being airborne above New Brunswick with a witch who smells faintly of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and victory.
Life is mysterious.
Love is stranger.
And broomsticks, I have learned, have terrible suspension.
The moral of the story: never underestimate a witch with a clean flight path, a sharp eye, and absolutely no patience for gloomy little wizards haunting the edges of someone else’s life.
Also, if she offers you a ride on the broomstick, ask whether there is a seatbelt. I can tell you it's more of a strap on than a hold on.
