About an hour ago-my sister and I went to a huge local fair that is always on in the last week of september. We went on the usual fairground rides like the Waltzers, but also some really really scary ones that made me scream VERY loudly-to the point my sister told me to shut up because people were staring.
I came home with a goldfish, a helium unicorn and a sick stomach 
a few weeks ago i was out on my sideporch at night, and this HUGE beetle–i guess it was a goliath beetle–came flying at my head. my husband got a kick out of that! but get this–we went out there a while later, and there was the beetle, dead as a door nail. i must have scared it worse than it scared me!
Ummm, I don’t squeak or shriek, but I did scream quite loudly when hiking in Japan and a giant bug landed on my shoulder. I was at the top of a small mountain and almost killed myself running around in circles, limbs akimbo.
Hee hee hee.
I don’t scream but I either go panic-silent or emit a rhythmic AH AH AH AH. And not in a good way.
Two years ago, while flying from Atlanta to Houston. About 1/2 hour out of Atlanta, we hit a pocket of turbulence and happened to drop straight down about 50 feet. I screamed like a little girl on fire being chased by a pit bull. Supervenusfreak still enjoys telling that story way too much.
Last weekend, when I nearly face-planted into a web with an enormous, orange-and-black-banded, fleshy, hairy spider. I stopped inches short and backpedalled with a speed nearly inexplicable, given my shlubbiness. I think it was the shrieking; full-throated shrieking gives you a turbo-boost.
Last night, in the bathroom. A large moth was thumping around the ceiling then swooped past my face with an audible woosh. I screeched and jerked my head back. BF looked puzzled.
Actual screams? Last year in Singapore. We were eating at an outdoor restaurant, and I was in a sleeveless top. I felt some tickling against my arm and looked down in time to see a roach the size of a credit card hoisting its way up my shirt. I leaped up screaming and frantically shaking the shirt. The bug fell off and one of the cooks who had run outside to see the commotion, nonchalantly stomped on it as it tried to scuttle away. Even better, we’d been to a bug zoo that morning.
Years ago. Alone in the back of a taxi in Delhi, India, about 8 o’clock at night, going from hotel to a shopping center, I felt the pressure of a hand on my right shoulder. I’m a big guy, and I screamed like a VERY frightened little girl, and immediately started wondering if I had disturbed a bhut or some other taxi-haunting entity.
It turned out to be a gecko that had leapt from parts unknown to my shoulder. (Maybe it fell as we went around a curve. Whatever: falling gecko = exactly the pressure of a sinister invisible human hand.)
The driver barely looked up. I suspect him of having trained it.
Considering I am female… and I tend to sing in the upper soprano range… and I sing in the shower… Yeah, simple math there XD.
Um… I honestly think the last time I screamed like a little girl was about… Two weeks ago when tripped over my cat down the steps??? (Yeah, not that great a story, but true…).
Okay, that reminds me…
A few years ago, a colleague and I were mistnetting for birds. We’d get some large insects caught in the nets on occasion - the dragonflies would try to eat their way through the net. And we’d try to free them and let them go. So, once we caught a large tabanid fly. This guy was enormous and caught around the head. I’m holding the net so my friend could free the fly. My fingers slip and the net goes “twang!” and the poor tabanid’s head goes flying off into the swamp.
Friend is like, “Oh well,” and tosses the tabanid’s presumed corpse away. Except it doesn’t fall to the ground. It flies away. Friend picks it up and tosses it in the air. This undead fly comes straight for me, and I can see the beheadedness of it SO CLEARLY. I’m overtaken by the mega-willies and am 15 feet down the trail before sound (the little girl variety) leaves my throat. Ick.
I was digging deep in our backyard sand pit with the twins, breaking up handfuls of sand and pulling out bits of tree root, when I noticed the sand in my hand was squishy, not crumbly.
Squishy…and firm…and…IT WAS ALIVE!
I screamed like a little girl.
It was…a frog!
He hopped away.
I screamed like a little girl about a week ago. I was about to take a half-dead potted plant from the garage to the front porch. I raised the garage door from the bottom handle. Halfway through this operation, I decided that no, I would take the pot through the house and out to the back porch. For some reason, I had slid two of my fingers in the crack opened up by opening the garage door, and when I changed my mind, I smashed those two fingers in the swiftly closing gap. It took me several seconds to associate closing the door with the pressure and pain, and then I screamed my fucking head off!!!
You know, I don’t think I ever screamed. Maybe when I was five, but not after I reached puberty.
I have done the “little girl scream” exactly twice in my life.
Early January, 1991, and my unit is packing up to move out and begin moving towards the Saudi-Iraq border. Tank crews shared a 4-man tent, which we had pretty much cleared out, except for my driver, who had been tasked to some Detail. The only thing he had left was his cot, which needed to be folded up, a rucksack sitting on the ground, and a BDU top lying next to it.
I picked up the BDU top, and a foot-long scorpion fell out of it (it was! foot-long!! I swear!!!).
I screamed like a little girl, did a ten-foot standing jump up onto the cot, drew my service-issue .45, and blew the sumbitch to little tiny scorpion bits.
Then in May of 2000, I was working as a civilian on a project for the U.S. Army Reserve in North Little Rock, Arkansas. About a week earlier, we’d received some equipment from another project site in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, which we were just getting around to opening up and using, when a pissed-off tarantula came out of one of the boxes I was opening and began waving his little feeler-grabber-thingys at me.
Lacking a .45, but otherwise armed with WD-40 and a Zippo, I proceeded to perfrom my own version of “take off and nuke the site from orbit” by first spraying Mr. Tarantula with WD-40, then turning the can into a flamethrower with the Zippo.
Mr. Tarantula didn’t like that at all. Mr. “Now-I’m-On-Fire!” Tarantula began running faster than the fucking Road Runner from Loony Tunes fame around the warehouse.
I then screamed like a little girl and unassed the warehouse (followed very closely by a half-dozen other grown men, all of them screaming like little girls, as well).
Within the last two weeks, probably.
I don’t take being surprised by dead mice very well. We have a very determined mouser, and a basement easily accessable to mice.
…and you haven’t slept since?
When I was 16. I was developing some prints in the darkroom I had constructed in my parents’ basement. I was wearing sandals at the time. I felt something on my foot and looked down to see a millipede about the size of a cohiba cigar crawling over my foot.
I didn’t just scream like a little girl. I completely spazzed. I flung the print tongs. I spun and kicked and lurched around the room. I banged my face off the door by trying to go through it without opening it. I clawed for the white light switch. I screamed some more.
I eventually determined that it had probably come in through an open floor drain. I put a proper cover on that ASAP.
I still hate crawlies.
I am going to kill my husband.
I finally got used to the ghoul who’s out of the box and assembled, the one that my husband has been tormenting me with for three days. (He has a hat on now, and he looks silly-scary now, which lessens the impact of glimpsing it.)
I forgot about the other ghoul. The one still in the box, the one that stayed in the box, disguising the first ghoul’s emergence on Wednesday.
My husband did not forget the other ghoul. Oh, no.
He got up early today to go to work, and I slept in a bit. I’ve actually been up for a couple of hours, but just now, decided to warm up my mug of tea in the microwave.
That would be the microwave oven that contained the severed head of a Hallowe’en ghoul.
Open. See. Scream like a little girl.
I am going to kill him. Any ideas for vengeance? I thought of ghoul-in-the-bed with him, but I’m afraid he wouldn’t be fazed in the least. Maybe I will give his DVD collection away instead.
If you get a female jury, you can pretty much be guaranteed a "Justifiable Homicide verdict, Savannah.
So long ago I can’t remember