How does this sound to you?

Okay this was origionally some homework i did for English class, but it kinda morphed into a mini project when the teacher basicly licked my shoes (metaphoricaly speaking) and grovelled at my brilliance today in class. Its about the Titanic, sorry if its kinda long:

We had boarded the great ship, the ‘Titanic’ at around eight of the clock in the evening on Wednesday the tenth of April. The sun almost completely dipped beneath the watery horizon, a warped oval in the sea that glistened like a ruby looking-glass. Mother urged me to hold onto my hat, insistent that if I let go for even a minute, the Atlantic air would blow it right off my head and into the sea!
I gripped the edges of the little boat in my gloved hands. What a fine feeling it was, to be back on the sea at last! Many a woman never crosses it, or even looks upon its majestic beauty. It is a great velvet curtain that ripples in the wind and laps on the sandy shores of our beautiful French coast, maybe having travelled from a far away, exciting land where the sun shines bright, happy as it does on our homeland. Tiny waves caressed the sides of the boat, washing it with such harmless care.
“Blanche, careful you do not fall in now,” he warned in his rich, dark voice. He only put half his heart into it, while he stared into Mother’s eyes. Her head was outlined against the sunset, a bloody halo in a gruesome portrait where the only angel was Mother’s perfect face. Her blonde ringlets twisted like tiny bleached vines next to her pale face, lips like roses above her dainty chin and pretty nose, dusted with a few warm freckles. Her eyes were almost a whole new part of her face, they were so gorgeous. Deep pools of emeralds rose up above her cheekbones and rested under curving eyelashes, flecks of gold rimming coal-black centre. Apparently I look much like Mother, though I see little resemblance myself.
Before us, the ship loomed up above. Lights blared like tiny beacons through the perfectly circular portholes, and four massive chimneys belched smoke into the sunset. I did not gasp, like so many others did, it was merely another passenger liner to take us all to New York. What should be so special about this one? I had been told it was the biggest ship constructed by human hands. A strange image appeared in my mind of tiny men, flies in comparison to the huge bulk of the ‘Titanic’, darting between the bow and the stern, streaks of colour in their wake. Its ungainly, hulking form almost spoiled the beautiful ocean around it.
Our little boat was hauled up from the sea on huge ropes, thick as snakes. Dusk had set in, and we were the first boat to come up. It must have been quite a hassle to fetch the others from the water. Mother, Father and I stood in a small huddle near the wooden deckchairs. A uniformed steward came over to show us to our rooms.
“This way, please sir,” he said in a crisp English accent, and beckoned for us to follow. “Your luggage should have already arrived in your rooms.”
Inside, the smell of paint was acrid. Cigarette smoke tinted the air with a tangy dullness. Salt stung my unaccustomed nose. We were lead down a crisp white passageway, moderately unimpressive, to a lower deck. On the way, I was informed that I would stay in a separate room to my parents, but with a door leading to their room should anything unfortunate happen. I realized we must be in a staff corridor, a quicker route to the rooms. The steward pushed open a door and held it for us. Before us lay the Grand Staircase. Its polished wood was a sheet of glass that could not be seen through, and its great glass dome was like a bubble streaked with gold, stars shining through the inky night sky. Intricate carvings separated the glistening banisters from the stairs, carved cherubs waited in welcoming stillness at the foot of the stairway.
We walked through a rabbit’s warren of polished passages, past delicate doors and over resplendent rugs. It was much like our house in France. At last, we came to our room doors. Our baggage was already sitting neatly in the corner, unpacked by the hired maids and hung up in the wardrobes.
*
The next evening, Father deemed it appropriate that we should dine with the other First Class passengers. I wore an elegant dress of blue silk, the precise shade of the night sky on the tenth of April. The sleeves came to just below my elbows, and Mother insisted I wear gloves, a tiny pair of lacy little things that snagged on my nails. A maid pinned my hair up, it being as brown and as thick as a chestnut, and pinned my hat on over the top. It was truly an amazing hat, deep blue with an indigo feather fastened to the brim.
Father wore his best suit, and Mother her favourite dress. We made our way to the Café Parisien. The walls were latticed wood painted in snowy white, all around the room tables and chairs lurked like waiting predators. Windows displayed the outside ocean like fine art. The plates






Answer :
Wow you can obviously write.
I like the style and the story. Are you doing like a whole book about the Titanic now then?