Competition - post a photo you've taken of nature >>

Could you give me some advice about how my English creative writing?

I've written this, I obviously won't use it exactly in the exam but could someone give me some feedback about the kind of mark it might get and ways to improve?

Here it is:

After so many years of being silent, the woods seemed to have come alive again. A world full of murmurings and shufflings and rustlings filled the world outside, but under the curtain-like fronds of the weeping willow, the only sound that could be heard was the soft, sad sigh of the wind.

A familiar, cold feeling twisted in the pit of my stomach. Every year, I walked away from the neat, square gardens of Whitechapel Lane and the Zoflora scented flowers that I made sure all our neighbours could see from the window, just to go and stumble through the black, greasy mud that shrouded the forest floor. I hated it. But I kept coming back. Kept needing to make sure that everything stayed buried.

I never meant to hit him, all those years ago, but it was late and I was tired. It had been a long day at work; even as I drove, the tunnel of my vision started to blur at the edges. Some sort of annoying, whining sound was wheedling out of the radio and all I wanted was to do what I did every night - home, dinner, and my nice warm bed. My mind was on autopilot.

And then I hit him.

He fell silently like a sack of leaves. I remember climbing out of the car, my heart a piston, and seeing his body slumped across the side of the highway like roadkill. A face drained of colour stared at me, lips pinched and puckered blue by the cold. He looked mottled, like some sort of awful waxwork cracked and left on the side of the road.

He twitched violently, gasping in pain.

I made my decision. Pulling the awful, scented wipes out of the glove compartment of my car, I started to scrub the blood on the tires away. In the darkness of the night, I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until all that you could smell was the sickeningly sweet scent of Zoflora drifting through the night.

Every year, I come back. Just to make sure nobody's found where I buried him all those years ago. The huddled trees keep my secret, and sharing it only with the wind as it passes through.

It's not quite finished, and I don't really like it much but I really need some advice for my creative writing mock exam tomorrow.

Any ideas?